


Starsurge

by hoxadrine



Series: The Twilight War [1]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient Kalimdor, Class Differences, Comfort/Angst, Developing Relationship, Elven Society, F/F, F/M, Great Houses of Suramar, Hurt/Comfort, Kaldorei Society, Life in Suramar, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nobility, Not a single straight character at all, Pre-War of the Ancients, Regency Romance, TW inside their own chapters, Unresolved Sexual Tension, highborne, slowest build ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 180,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8055142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoxadrine/pseuds/hoxadrine
Summary: Mylenne Stareye's life in Suramar is far from perfect; at first, from being the only daughter of a kaldorei aristocrat and pretended Highborne who only wishes for more power, forcing her to initiate a training to become a Priestess of Elune as a way to give his household a more respectable name in the Highborne society.But everything on her life starts falling apart when her father intends for her to choose her childhood friend, Jarod Shadowsong, as her lifemate.That is until a sorcerer crosses her path and turns her world upside down; an initiate from the well respected Moon Guard order: Illidan Stormrage.Timeline based previous to the War of the Ancients, with fanart included!





	1. Detection

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [h34rt1lly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LILYisatig3r/pseuds/h34rt1lly) for her wonderful inspiration <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **02/28:** Rewritten and fanart added.

** Darnassian: **

**An’da:** Father.

 **Ande’thoras’ethil:** A farewell, meaning “May your troubles be diminished”.

 **Elune-adore:** Used as a greeting and a farewell, “Elune be with you”.  


* * *

** Stareye **

A pair of pale and nimble lavender hands rest over a white railing, long nails barely scratching the marble surface. Her silver eyes glance to the night sky, elegant violet eyebrows quirking in awe as she marvels at the sight of that very particular moment—that time of the night where the Moon comes to rest, her silvery-white rays diminishing, slowly fading as she seems to take the stars with her, announcing the coming of dawn.

The kaldorei closes her eyes, filling her lungs with the cold—and utterly refreshing—air that the Moon leaves behind in her farewell. A genuine smile crosses her lilac lips when a slow, teasing breeze rises and toys with a few strands of her hair before taking its leave, like a little child waving goodbye before following her mother’s steps.

Here, standing relaxed on one of the highest balconies inside the Temple of Elune, Mylenne Stareye knows for that to be the Moon’s particular way to bid farewell, at least for the night. When she lifts her gaze to the marble white roof of the sanctuary, she can see the precise moment when the moonlight slowly retracts and diminishes from the walls—the Temple returning to their natural silvery appearance instead of the distinguished glowing that always surrounds the place at night.

In her eyes, it’s like the Mother Moon’s silky caress over the surface, an ever so delicate touch that also serves as a reminder that she will soon return. And yet, even the Goddess needs to rest.

And so does Mylenne, if the sudden heaviness of her eyes and shoulders are any indication. With a final intake of much-needed fresh air, the female turns away from the balcony, lifting the hems of her dress to take the stairs down to the entrance of the building. Sheer relief shows on her face before even stepping a foot out of the Temple, her heart lifting at the thought of not needing to return to the place for a couple of nights.

Mother Moon may forgive her for her boldness, but she can’t help with her insides filling with utter bliss the second she places a foot outside the Temple of Elune—her shroud of Sister abandoned and forgotten on the white, immaculate chambers.

After leaving her silver cloak inside the sanctuary, the woman climbs down the stairs eagerly and takes a seat a few meters away, taking some time by undoing the strands of violet hair which make her thick, long braid—reveling in the feeling of letting her mane free and wild once again, the night wind playing with it and brushing her shoulder before resting upon her back, down close to the back of her hips.  

While Mylenne waits for her most faithful companion to appear, she rests her cheek over one of her pale lavender hands, pointed ears drifting upwards, listening to the soothing wind that tends to come with the sunrise. The rising of dawn is one of her favorite moments in Mylenne’s schedule; a silent hour when the streets of Suramar grow empty of people, the city’s merchants away from their stalls and stores.

However—at the kaldorei usual resting hour—the land seems to look more alive than ever, a smile clinging to the woman’s lips at the happy chirps from the birds, announcing the start of the day. Her silver eyes roam at the ever so subtle shift from the trees on the forest before her, watching as for how its leaves attempt to rise, seemingly excited for the sun’s rays to shine through them.

A bright chirp echoes close to her feet and Mylenne looks down, her smile widening as she glances at a couple of dark-feathered birds next to her, apparently looking for some sticks to keep working on their nests.

One of the birds turns their head at her, chirping happily to her general direction. “Hello, little one,” The woman greets them with her softest tone, a white set of canines showing behind her lilac lips as she grins at the little animal.

The bird’s companion raises their head at the sound of her voice, joining in the happy singing and shifting in their spots, seemingly looking for something. “I’m afraid I don’t have any sticks or branches for you,” Mylenne confesses, violet head leaning to the side and lips turning into a pout. She then glances at her surroundings, yet unfortunately, there isn’t a nice tree around that may have what the little animals are probably looking for.

It’s then when the breeze returns—slightly warmer along with the first rays of sunlight—apparently deciding to play with her hair once more, tangling and waving some strands of her mane to rest over one of her shoulders. The pale orange light from the sun peeking from behind the forest trees reflects onto her figure; her hair gleaming and shifting into various shades of bright violet and dark red, seemingly capturing the interest of her current little companions.

Mylenne turns her attention again to the birds below, following their sharp eyes, eliciting a quirk of a long violet eyebrow. “So, my hair might do, then?” As the pair chirps louder in reply, she can’t help but chuckle in amusement, grabbing some thick strands between her fingers.

The small animals sing at her in their own way to express their anticipation, yet she first stays sure there are no unwanted eyes close to her location, glancing to both sides and behind her shoulder for good measure. Only when the soft whispers from the morning wind are the only answer, the woman then lifts her free hand, rubbing a pale lavender thumb against her index and middle finger, watching how her extremities start glowing faintly in soft shades of purple.

Arcane magic drifts through her fingers as she draws a small arc close to her other hand, chopping off some tips of her thick strands more easily than with a scissor. As the small curls fall to the floor, the birds nearly throw themselves at them, chirping in joy and appreciation as they capture all the strands they can onto their beaks. Their little dark feathers shudder when some tiny drops of magic reach them, yet Mylenne finds some relief as—judging by their movements—they seem to like the sensation of it, just as she currently does.

For the woman actually finds some relief in using her inner magic, even when it tends to come out too clumsily and only has the chance to make use of it away from prying eyes. Although she can’t certainly describe with exact words how she _really_ feels when she lets her magic out, if someone may ask, she’d say that the feeling relates to something similar to being able to breathe after spending too much time underwater.

And yet, that’s probably the most accurate way to explain it. After all—and adding her _An’da_ ’s despise towards all things magical—she’s not supposed to be able to cast magic in any way. But still, the arcane runs through her veins, regardless of it all.

… And whether she’d like it or not as well.

The birds open their wings and lift close to the fading mist her fingers leave in the air, seemingly enjoying the warm sensation on their hide—as if the morning dew brushing against them—before flying in circles above her head, chirping happily in appreciation and taking their leave to the forest. When they aren’t more than a couple of small, dark dots in the distance, Mylenne rests her chin on her free hand; eyes fluttering close, silently basking in the feeling of her glowing fingertips tickling her covered thigh, her muscles relaxing with the small release of her too restrained energy.

She’s not sure how much time she spends there, but her silver eyes snap open in sudden alert when she hears soft steps approaching her location—eliciting her to close her hand into a fist, the soft glowing of her fingertips hidden from view and fading. Regardless, Mylenne never turns her head to glance at the newcomers, for the brushing of leather sandals against the porcelain stairs tell her everything she needs to know.

“We’re running out of time, Priestess Tyrande!” A high pitched voice from one of her fellow Sisters reach Mylenne’s pointy ears, “We are coming close to the Festival and our preparations aren’t nearly done. What are we going to do?” Sylenna’s voice cries out, sounding genuinely worried.

“I don’t even have a partner to attend to!” Another initiate and acquaintance, Thania, laments this time, making a couple of Sisters chuckle at her silly concerns. Mylenne relaxes at the sound of their laughter, her shoulders easing and starting to shake as she silently joins in their mirth, pale lilac lips contorting into a smile with the particularly contagious snickering coming from the former Sister, Sylenna.

Mylenne turns her head to watch her fellow Sisters walking down the stairs, her attention idly focusing on the pair of initiates surrounding the only Priestess around. But then, while one of her ears twitches at the sound of another couple of steps coming from the street, Mylenne can’t certainly turn her gaze away from Tyrande Whisperwind—watching in awe as for how she goes around with such evident confidence, so graceful and elegant.

A pang of guilt and frustration tugs at her chest, her heart feeling heavy and lips no longer smiling; for when all the initiates seem to look out for Priestess Tyrande—sometimes for just her approval, sometimes for inspiration—Mylenne knows, deep in her heart, that she may never going to find her vocation on the Temple of Elune.

Maybe what she feels towards Priestess Tyrande is more like resentment and slight envy rather than flat admiration, even more so when considering that she has apparently found her path in life while Mylenne had not.

Mother Moon may forgive her for her shameful thoughts, but she can’t certainly deny what she really feels—at the very least, she wouldn’t lie to herself.

When a couple of male voices join in the mirth, Mylenne nearly jumps in surprise, finally taking her eyes away from the beautiful kaldorei already at the bottom of the stairs, still surrounded by the Sisters. A man with bright green mane enters her line of sight, approaching to greet Tyrande with a dear smile on his lips.

“I believe that, with the amount of work that you Sisters need to do, looking for a partner to attend the Festival should be the last of your worries,” The man speaks softly, smile never faltering—although Mylenne certainly notices how his attention appears to be only focused on the Priestess before him.

Thania drops her eyes to the floor in evident embarrassment at the man’s words, but a dark hand easily comes to rest on one of her bare shoulders.

“I’m afraid Priestess Tyrande’s friend is right, Thania, and we _do_ have much work to do before focusing on bringing a partner with us,” Sylenna attempts to comfort her, smiling softly as Thania glances shyly in her direction. “But don’t worry about that, my friend! I’ll be glad to spend the rest of the night with you after we get free from our obligations.”

Thania’s eyes brighten at the Sister’s kind words, a small blush creeping on her cheeks as she rests a hand over Sylenna’s dark one, a shy smile clinging to her lips. All eyes fix on the pair anda bigger smile comes from Tyrande, her silver eyes narrowing in approval and appreciation.

Unfortunately, the moment only lasts briefly as a soft snort comes from the street, behind Mylenne. "You should not worry about such trivial matters, Sister. It was never mandatory for the Sisterhood to bring a partner to the Moon Festival.”

Mylenne cranes her neck at the owner of that deep voice, rebel strands from her long violet mane brushing her face with the movement and the constant morning breeze coming from the forest. Silver eyes meet a pair of golden ones, her breath hitching after capturing the sight of the male standing a couple of meters ahead.

Despite the man directing his words at Thania, she realizes that his bright golden eyes are actually focused on _her_ , her cheeks inevitably darkening with his unwavering stare. In an act of reflex—and, maybe, an excuse to hide her blush—she uses her left hand to brush her hair away from her face, noticing how his gaze shifts away from her features ever so slightly.

Her eyes widen and she holds back a small gasp, becoming aware that the man isn’t really staring _at her_ , but his interest rather rests in the fading purple mist coming from her fingertips. Mylenne’s heart goes racing at the thought of being—somehow—caught, quickly rising from her spot and severely aware of her blush deepening.

The booming voice from the other man nearly makes her freeze. “Now, that’s rather rude, brother…” The green haired male protests as he turns his eyes away from Priestess Tyrande, glancing at the rest of the Sisters before finally acknowledging Mylenne, yet only for a mere moment.

The noise of massive paws resounds behind Mylenne’s shoulders and, despite her still racing heart, she can’t help but sigh deeply in some relief as a striped frostsaber makes their appearance. However, said relief never really lasts for long when the beast slows their pace, coming to stop close to the male kaldorei she’s very consciously trying to avoid looking at.

Their eyes meet once more, yet this time he seems to notice her discomfort—or perhaps he just doesn’t give much thought about it—uncrossing his muscled arms and turning his attention at the other male. He then takes a couple of steps away from the beast as if wary of them, approaching the group. “I wasn’t trying to be rude but just honest, _brother_ ,” the man says, deep baritone voice remarking his last word, lips barely holding back a sneer.

His remark captures Mylenne’s interest, violet eyebrows joining into a deep frown as, slow but steady, she finally grasps the real meaning of his words. Rapid blinks follow her sudden realization, now thoroughly taking a look at the only two male kaldorei in the group; revealing in the sight of the second one’s cobalt mane, half of it tied up in a high ponytail, close to the crown of his head and between his long, elegant ears.

Mylenne’s eyes travel to his broad, covered shoulders, resting on the necklace dangling in the middle of his bare chest—the symbol of a crescent silver moon making all the pieces of the puzzle fit in her mind.

Golden eyes—a very rare color among her people—and dark cobalt hair, silver and purple-red robes from what could only belong to an initiate of the Moon Guard order. _Dear Goddess_ , _of course_ …, she smacks herself internally, nearly slack-mouthed; she’s staring at the twin brother of Priestess Tyrande’s friend.

Stormrage… _Illidan Stormrage_.

“And what about you, Sister Mylenne?” The soft voice from Priestess Tyrande takes her out of her reverie, being the first to finally acknowledge her presence. Mylenne turns on her shoulders and blinks thrice in sudden confusion, making the Priestess tilt her head at her, dark green eyebrows narrowing into a frown. “You seem to be a little distracted tonight. Is all well?”

Mylenne’s lips part to answer her superior, yet her eyes betray her as they dare stealing another glance at that particular male she first wanted to avoid looking at. “Y—yes, Priestess, I am fine,” She replies, nearly biting her tongue for her abrupt clumsiness. The frostsaber takes some steps closer to their owner—as if they notice her discomfort over so many eyes focused on her. “I am a little tired, that is all.” She opts for deflection, idly scratching the back of her head before turning to her mount.

“Have you thought about bringing a partner to the Festival as well?” Sylenna wonders, looking interested as Mylenne uses her slightly trembling hands to hold onto the dark jeweled saddle, climbing atop the frostsaber with much-practiced ease.

“Wh—what?” Another mumble escapes her, so she takes the advantage of focusing her attention on Rak’shareh, scratching her thick white fur atop her massive head—at the very least, trying to do _something_ with herself instead of staring again at that particular man with that definitely amused smirk on his lips. “I… I must admit the thought had not crossed my mind,” Mylenne confesses, unable to do hold back the dark blush creeping to her cheeks.

“Oh? That means you won’t be attending with Jarod this year?” It’s Thania who asks that time, approaching closer to her line of sight, thin eyebrows quirking in evident interest.

Mylenne just shrugs, rather more focused on avoiding Illidan Stormrage’s gaze—feeling it fixed on her face, deepening her blush—and bites her lower lip in a silly attempt to soothe her racing heart, just a little bit. “I haven’t asked him, he’s been busy over the past month,” The woman admits, “To be honest, I’m more preoccupied about _An’da_ not giving him much trouble rather of asking him to attend the Festival, of all things…”

“And you are right about that, Sister. We will pray to the Mother Moon for his and the Black Rook guards’ wellbeing,” Sylenna asserts, kind and true to her nature, nodding in her general direction with a gentle smile.

The only Sister who doesn’t really seem to be satisfied with her excuses is Tyrande, stepping away from her friend’s reach— _Malfurion_ , if Mylenne recalls correctly—and walking right next to her frostsaber, idly scratching the fur on her neck. “Is it for them that you have been so distracted these nights, Sister Mylenne?” She wonders, worry and concern narrowing her delicate face. “I do not intend to meddle in your personal life, although… is there something we can do for you?”

She can’t help but imitate Tyrande’s deep frown at the questioning. _And why she’s so concerned about me all of a sudden?_ _And_ Priestess Tyrande _, of all women on the Temple?_ She ponders as she looks to her lavender hands, deep into Rak’shareh’s bright fur, losing in her thoughts once more.

Sure, she’d been particularly tired over the past week and would admit that if someone asked. Desdel Stareye’s insistence and further pushing on her priestess training had been wearing her out as of late, leaving Mylenne within each passing night even surer that this initiation wasn’t really the way she’d been planning for her life. Regardless, that’s not really her current concern.

It’s more than, barely three weeks ago—and as some sort of _twisted_ celebration for the first year of her initiation into the Sisterhood of Elune—her _An’da_ had declared he was looking forward to her childhood friend, Jarod Shadowsong, to becoming her intended husband and lifemate. She had actually received his blessing and encouragement for that to happen.

Everything went somewhat grim after that event, leaving Mylenne with the only relief—although, to be honest, not as relieving as she’d like—that neither she nor Jarod were particularly _happy_ with her _An’da_ ’s blessing.

When a big hand that could only belong to a male brushes her knee, she can’t help with her startling, abruptly being taken out of her reverie. Her frostsaber shifts sharply, looking quite rattled at her owner’s sudden distressed state. “I am sorry for scaring you, Sister, but you look… paler,” The Stormrage twin’s baritone voice matches Tyrande’s worrying one, yet he takes his hand away before upsetting Mylenne’s beast even further.

“Illidan is right,” Tyrande points out—unconsciously mentioning her friend’s name and confirming Mylenne’s assumptions—nodding at him in seeming appreciation. “Are you sure you would not like someone to accompany you to your home?”

The Priestess’ comment makes Rak’shareh shift again, growling low, now definitely distressed with the idea of carrying another elf upon her back—and any other kaldorei that’s not her owner. Mylenne closes her legs and grips harder to the beast’s fur to maintain her balance on the saddle, although she looks just as upset as her beast with the idea.

“No!” She winces when her voice comes louder and more high-pitched than she’d intended to, quickly shaking her head as well as making Tyrande and Illidan frown even deeper. “Please, do not bother. I assure you, I will be fine, although it is better for me to go now…”

She takes notice of the cobalt-haired man silently mouthing _‘Will?’_ below her, yet he’s left without any chance to make a remark when his brother intervenes—placing himself behind the Priestess and joining in their apparent concern. “Are you sure, Sister? Because my brother seems to be willing to join you, and I must say he can be quite the stubborn…” Malfurion adds, attempting for a joke to lighten the humor.

Unfortunately, his intentions seem to irritate his brother furthermore, glancing at Malfurion with a deeper crease on his forehead, lips parting to probably bark something at him. But Mylenne is quick to make up an excuse. “It is alright, but I would rather ride alone. Besides, Rak’shareh is not fond of carrying someone else than me.” She states, patting her beast’s striped fur to soothe her a little bit.

The Priestess sighs deeply with her comment, clearly not agreeing with her but certainly left without anything to retort back. “If that is your wish…” Tyrande closes her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply before glancing at Mylenne one last time, then lifting her hand and drawing the symbol of Elune to place her blessing. “ _Elune-adore_ , Sister. Be safe.”

“ _Ande’thoras’ethil_ , Sister,” Malfurion joins in, also giving her the Mother Moon’s blessing out of pure courtesy.

Her fellow Sisters imitate their actions, but the remaining man in the street just stands there—so very still, arms limp to his sides, gaze locked and intent on her, appearing as if Mylenne and her frostsaber were the only beings that required his unwavering attention.

She sends a curt nod in his general direction, turning away from the group and with Rak’shareh quick in their pace. Yet even when she turns the street and the Temple of Elune quickly disappears from sight, she can’t stop feeling Illidan’s near _burning_ stare on her back, her knee keeping its slight trembling on her way home—that exact spot in which, not much more than mere minutes ago, a dark hand had brushed over it.


	2. Contemplation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mylenne and her friends, Maiev and Jarod Shadowsong, share a meal and go for a walk. Unfortunately for her, the night doesn't end as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/17: Switched to present tense.  
> 05/11/18: Added some art.   
> _One day I'll rewrite this chap, I swear..._

** Darnassian: **

**An’da:**  Father.

 **Quel’dorei** **:** Children of noble birth. Also serves as a translation for Highborne.

 **Min’da** **:** Mother.

* * *

  **Stareye**

The bright sun was reaching its peak, but when it’s a typical time of the day for kaldorei to rest and sleep, Mylenne was so distressed and entrenched in her own thoughts that the idea of finally returning home—and to the little sanctuary that was her bedroom—was not appealing to her in that moment.

Regardless of it all, her lovely frostsaber takes her owner to her usual destination, its steps swift and confident over the bright dark green and cerulean grass that covers the inner squares of Suramar city; the part where only highborn and rich aristocrats used to live…

And to the place where Mylenne is really avoiding to go; Desdel Stareye’s home.

When the face of her  _An’da_  crosses her mind, with his broad shoulders straightened and his thick midnight-black beard adorning his proud raised chin, Mylenne couldn’t do anything but to flutter her eyes shut very tight behind her long violet eyelashes, her hands unintentionally gripping harder onto Rak’shareh’s fur.

The beast below her decreases its speed, stopping in its tracks and turning its massive white and black striped head to the kaldorei, one of her big amber eyes looking at her with concern. Mylenne opens her eyes when she notices that they had stopped and gazes at Rak’shareh, her lips contorting in a sad smile.

She lessens her tight grip on her fur—although the frostsaber never complained about it—and leans close to Rak’shareh’s face, stroking the bridge of its nose in an attempt to soothe her. “What would I ever do without you, my dear Rak?” she whispers softly, making one of the beast’s ears twitch with her words.

The frostsaber leans into her touch, purring at her ministrations, but it isn’t long before its eyes returned to her owner, its gaze fill with worry. Mylenne rests one of her cheeks between the beast’s long pointy ears and sighs deeply, biting her lower lip when Rak’shareh keens softly in response.

The kaldorei were never quite expressive people, particularly when it comes to sharing dark and unhappy feelings, but it was known among Mylenne’s race that animals—and natural sorcerers, or gifted elves with the magical energy coming from the Well of Eternity—were able to feel, to smell and to even  _see_  an elf’s aura. So it wasn’t particularly strange to think that Rak’shareh, her long friend and ever present companion, would be able to sense her distress over the last few days.

“Sh, sh… it is alright, my friend,” she attempts to soothe the frostsaber, returning her hands to stroke its nose and fur over her head, “You know that I cannot stand to hear you sad, much less because of me.”

She kept her stroking for another couple of minutes, feeling how Rak’shareh and her own troubled mood slowly started to ease, the beast’s low keens turning into relaxed purrs within each caress on its fur. Behind the trees, a bright yellow glow made its way through the green leaves, and Mylenne watches as how the sun rays reflect on her and on the beast’s fur. When she lifts her gaze, she has to shield her face with a forearm to avoid the light to reach her eyes.

Despite the pleasant feeling of being caressed by the sun and surrounded by nature, the kaldorei could sense how her magical energies were diminishing and wearing her out within each minute passing. “Mmh, how about you take us home, Rak?” She asks to her frostsaber. “Despite my wishes to avoid an encounter with my father, I am afraid that I still need to rest.”

And so Rak’shareh started to move again, this time keeping a slow and steady pace, allowing the kaldorei placed upon her dark jeweled saddle to drift into her thoughts once more.

But when Mylenne’s mind felt clouded and disturbed, a slow and warm breeze arose and followed her path, making her long violet mane swing and wave through the air in her way, but also caressing her skin and stroking her pointy lavender ears. A small smile reaches her lips and she lifts her head, allowing the breeze to cleanse her and take away the dark thoughts that were taking place on her mind.

Nature was wise and Mylenne knew that, despite that the Mother Moon was resting at that time of the day, Elune always took deep care of her children, even in her sleep.

Unfortunately, the more she ventured into the inner squares of the city, the lesser trees were to be seen, the landscape replaced by tall elegant buildings and wooden structures, and where a couple of minutes ago, Rak’shareh’s steps were muffled and silent in the cerulean grass, now its claws start to scratch the streets made of flat gray stones, the floor more suitable for carriages and carts than for animals.

But Mylenne smiles anyway, for when the ancient and elegant structure that was her home entered on her line of sight, the first thing she sees besides the wooden rounded door of the entrance is a big lavender-feathered owl, taking its usual morning nap. His big claws are latched on a curved plank next to the entrance and above the mailbox, the owl’s head resting on its chest, looking quite undisturbed; pretty much unlike its owner and the frostsaber that were on their way.

“Hello, Normosh’el,” the kaldorei greets the owl, climbing down of the saddle and walking to the mailbox, raising a hand to brush the beautiful bird’s feathers with her fingertips. “You came early today. Do you have something for me?”

The owl stirs for a second before moving its head, looking at Mylenne with its large dark eyes, releasing a low hoot in its way to greet her. But unlike the beast behind her, Normosh’el enjoyed the solitude and wasn’t fond of long interactions, so when Mylenne starts to search for new letters, the bird returns to its peaceful sleep, the kaldorei below her long forgotten.

While Rak’shareh stretch its legs and enters the small garden behind the house—surely to have its own well-deserved nap—Mylenne takes her correspondence, entering her home and idly walking to the small kitchen, conveniently placed below the rounded stairs that lead to the bedrooms. A relieved sigh escapes her lips when she notices that her  _An’da_  was nowhere to be seen, probably quite entrenched in his work on the Black Rook Hold to take some time to return to his home.

Thanking the Mother Moon for her sudden luck, she manages to get a piece of rice bread and sits next to the kitchen table, sorting out the many letters that are directed to her father and finding the notable handwriting that could only belong to one male and her childhood friend.

_“Dear Myl,_

_Work has been hard in the Hold, with the Moon Festival fast approaching, and I apologize for not being able to visit you these days. I barely had a couple of hours of sleep between shifts and I am soon returning as I write this letter to you. But fortunately, I am having my day off today, and so does Maiev, from what I know!_

_So, how about you come to visit us? Sister promised to make radish kimchi for us, and she also said that she will be happy to get her hands on that sweet moonberry wine that you, quel’dorei, tend to like so much. I am sure that Desdel will not notice the absence of a small bottle, am I right?_

_Anyways, with or without that wine, we will be waiting for you. And how about taking a walk after lunch? We do have much to talk about, and thank the Goddess, not just about those absurd ideas that your father is having._

_We miss you and hope that you think about coming by our place._

_Elune-adore, my friend._

_Jarod.”_

A dear, wishful smile reaches Mylenne’s lilac lips, taking a second read at Jarod’s letter, trying to maintain that warm and pleasant feeling she always used to get when she received his letters, if only for a moment.

She had been thinking about visiting the grave of her mother for quite a while and it’s one of her intended plans—besides making some time to go to Jarod and Maiev’s place—now that she had a couple of days free and away from the Temple. But Mylenne knows that she couldn’t say no to the delightful idea of having lunch with her friends, much less when Maiev was to take care of the food.

And oh, Maiev Shadowsong was really blessed by the Mother Moon in the cuisine arts, and the mere thought of having the chance to taste one of her delicious dishes makes her stomach rumble loudly in expectation.

But first, she needs a well-needed rest; so the kaldorei resumes her eating with a newfound eagerness, downing her food with a glass of water, and takes the rounded stairs up to her bedroom. Kicking her leather sandals out of her feet, she climbs into her bed, quickly falling into slumber.

* * *

Close to the time when the Mother Moon was reaching its peak, Mylenne is riding again, but this time to the outskirts of Suramar city, right where the trees start to grow tall and connected the city to the thick multicolored forest.

With the cold night wind swinging her hair—now free again from braids and ties—and Rak’shareh swift in its steps, the kaldorei wonders again why did the noble elves and aristocrats decided to place their homes so far away from nature and, consequently, from their obvious connection with the land and their Goddess.

And the answer is fast to come when the contents of her sack brush against the dark jeweled saddle that was placed upon the back of her frostsaber, the sound of glass against glass clinging to her ears.  _Of course_ , she thinks to herself, readjusting her sack to not keep hitting the beast below her; because despite their eternal adoration to the Mother Moon, it’s easy to get disconnected from their real roots when the Well of Eternity and its magical waters would satisfy all their needs.

Mylenne is not the one who could be able to deny that, not when she’s aware of being a gifted one with the skills for sorcery, and much less when she is in frequent need of the Well’s magical waters to maintain her vitality and energy.

But, despite all that, Mylenne grew up with the ability to control and restrain her magic, merely using it away from prying eyes—mostly in the solitude of her home—and only when her own body was craving for a little release of her energies.

And the kaldorei wondered again why the Mother Moon would gift her with her  _Min’da_ ’s skill and talents for sorcery and arcane magic but, also, curse her with having an  _An’da_  who would—in the next centuries after her birth—despise everything related to it.

Then again, the kaldorei chastised herself with a quick shake of her head, for she is not the one to question the Goddess and her decisions upon her children. A small snort escapes her lips at the thought of the possible scandalized reaction her fellow Sisters would have if they could hear her.

A loud and amusing laugh takes her out of her reverie, making Mylenne open her eyes wide and look to both sides in the search for the owner of that contagious mirth. “Finally!” A feminine voice announces, coming out from her hiding place which was behind a wide tree. “And here she is, Mylenne Stareye returning to the land of the living. It is a blessing from the Mother Moon herself!”

“I cannot believe our luck to be present and witness such moment!” Another voice, this time from a male, teases her from behind Rak’shareh’s tail and Mylenne cranes her neck to see a silver-haired man coming up to stand next to her frostsaber, an amused smirk reaching to his lips.

“Maiev! Jarod!” Mylenne cries, her voice loud with joy, before throwing herself out of the beast’s saddle and into the waiting arms of one of her best friends since her childhood. “By Elune, it is so good to see you!”

Jarod grabs her by the waist without difficulty, lifting her friend and giving her a crushing warm hug, making them spin in circles and waving Mylenne’s violet mane, the wind toying with it and echoing their wild laughter. Maiev is quick to join the pair of kaldorei, her features contorting into a wide grin at the sight of them.

“Oh, is there not a big hug for me too?” The silver-haired woman teases, adjusting her position and placing the weight of a big wicker basket on one of her hips, looking at Mylenne with bright eyes gleaming in expectation.

So it is when the Shadowsong brother placed her on the floor, Mylenne is quick to get a hold of Maiev’s basket with one hand and pushing her into a dear embrace with her free arm, mirth and joy filling the girls as well as their surroundings. Even Rak’shareh purred at the distance, allowing the now empty handed man to stroke its fur.

While the night breeze arose once again and filled itself with the elves’ happy laughter from their reunion, Mylenne let go of her friend to gaze at the view of the forest from her spot, feeling how her heart lifted and her chest warmed at the joy of being surrounded by her dearest friends and the thick forest, who seem pleased as always to welcome her, if their own mirth echoing through the trees were of any indication.

Maiev places a nimble lavender hand on her shoulder, positioning herself at arm’s length to take a better look at her friend. “It is good to see you too, my friend,” she says, ruffling her hair and pulling Mylenne close to her again, intertwining her free arm with hers.

“Well, that is a relief, Maiev, because here I was thinking that you only were happy to see Rak’shareh and my bag over here.” Mylenne teases her, taking some strands of her hair out of her face with her free hand.

“Oh, Jarod!” The woman complains, looking behind Mylenne’s shoulder. “You were not supposed to tell her to bring that wine! That was rude of you!”

“Why was it rude?” Her brother asks, joining the women on their way to the Shadowsong’s home, walking right beside his guest and capturing her free arm in his. “Did your father complained at all?” Jarod says next, his bright silver orbs looking down to the violet-haired kaldorei next to him.

Mylenne just snorts at his mention but did not really let herself lost in her thoughts again, preferring the much pleasant present moment with her friends, one at each side of her, now glaring at each other like the very brother and sister they are, always pushing the one to their limits.

“My father? He has not returned home since last week so, it is evident that he never noticed the absence of a couple of bottles.” Mylenne shrugs in the best way she could, given that she was quite trapped between the two elves, but also noticing how Jarod’s lips widened into a triumphant grin.

“A-ha! I am victorious, once again!” Jarod exclaims, raising a fist in the air in an exaggerated way, making his sister roll her eyes at him. “I must insist,  _sister_ , you should stop trying to get your guesses about Mylenne and her father and just ask  _me_. Now… what was my prize?”

Maiev snorts loudly at his brother’s mocking of her, but when Jarod places himself in front of the females and a big large hand was extended to her in anticipation, she couldn’t do much more than to comply, letting go of Mylenne’s arm for a moment to search for something inside her wicker basket.

“Mother Moon grant me patience,” she mutters low, her voice half serious and half joking, before taking a lunar pear and throwing it at Jarod, the male being quick with his reflexes and grabbing it in middle air. “There you go, but save some space on that stomach of yours or you are going to miss the real food!”

Mylenne’s lavender cheeks started to hurt from smiling and laughing so much but still, her feet follow her friends and take their way onto Jarod and Maiev’s home. Unlike the residential wards and inner squares from Suramar city, where the landscape was void from any trees and multicolored leaves, the outskirts of the city seem to contain what those districts missed and more.

For when the houses lacked any exotic façade, the huge variety of colors that made up the landscape actually compensated everything, almost giving the feeling that they were in an entirely different city.

But, nonetheless, when she places her feet in front of the rounded wooden door that marked the entrance of the Shadowsong’s house, that also gave Mylenne the sensation that she still was standing in elven territory.  And that reminded her of the real foundations of the kaldorei; but mostly that they were  _not all_ quel’dorei.

Maiev is quick and takes the kitchen for her own duties of cooking, leaving Jarod and Mylenne to tend for themselves and help with what’s left of the preparations. When the food is done and set on the table, they had previously downed one of the three bottles of moonberry wine that Mylenne had brought for them, the kaldorei already feeling slightly light on her feet.

As usual, the silver-haired woman did not disappoint, but she could only see—half amused and half frustrated—how Mylenne and Jarod devoured half of their dishes before Maiev could give her first taste to her own ration of radish kimchi, having to stand up from her seat to take another bottle of wine before someone asked for it.

They did not talk much at first, quite concentrated and delighted in their dishes before thinking in making up some conversation, but as the night went by and the second bottle of wine got downed, they started to catch up on their recent activities, the oldest of the Shadowsong getting all the attention at first.

“… And while the Sisters already said that I might probably end stationed on Galhara, I do hope that High Priestess Dejahna makes up her mind and sends me to Hajiri,” Maiev continued her speech, finishing another glass of wine and standing up to help her brother to clean up the table. “Ugh, Mother Moon have mercy on me if I happen to end on Galhara.” She says, barely containing a shudder.

“Was not on that settlement where the previous High Priestess, Kalo’thera, was said to ‘ascend to the stars’?” Mylenne asks with genuine interest, also helping with the cleaning.

“And here I am hoping that you do not intend to follow the High Priestess’ steps, sister.” The only male in the house remarks with a frown from his silver eyebrows, glancing at Maiev next to him.

“Oh, but that sounds exciting!” Mylenne interrupts Jarod, coming from behind him and placing a hand on one of his broad shoulders, both looking at the woman in front of them, her long silver mane tightened up into a large ponytail. “You see, we already may be in the presence of another demigoddess, the daughter of Elune herself!” She says in the most amusing of tones, lifting a hand in Maiev’s direction as if intending to present her to her own brother.

But the woman rolls her eyes and clears her throat, a frown matching the one in her brother’s forehead. “You should not speak of the Goddess like that, Mylenne. That  _is_  rude of you.” Maiev points out, crossing her arms over her chest.

With that, Mylenne could only raise her arms in the air, in the universal symbol of submission. “All right, all right… but you two are no fun.” She mentions with a pout before heading to the living room, gathering her pouch and the silver-white cloak that she always tends to take everywhere after her initiation in the Temple.

Jarod joins her with a low chuckle and a shake of his head, taking his light leather jacket. “So, how about we head out to the city? It is our free day, after all, and I will be glad to get my hands on more of that sweet moonberry wine.” He asks, a light smirk reaching his lips.

With that said, a massive furry head that could only belong to Mylenne’s frostsaber glanced at them from the other side of the window, howling in excitement to get on the move again and making the kaldorei inside the house to barely explode in laughter.

Maiev was the last one to get out, her mirth still subsiding and trying to adjust her cloak while turning the lights out. “I love that beast. She definitely needs a treat.” She admits before closing the rounded wooden door of the Shadowsong’s main entrance.

* * *

It is the middle of the night when the three kaldorei are each one besides the other, their backs resting on Rak’shareh’s soft fur, now brighter and shining with silver-white tones thanks to the moon’s reflection on it. The Shadowsong brothers were discussing battle stances while Mylenne preferred to rest her head on the beast’s jeweled saddle, basking in the sensation of the moonlight caressing her flushed cheeks.

“… I do prefer light swords rather than a longsword,” Jarod continues, tilting the half-empty bottle of moonberry wine close to Mylenne’s face by accident. “It is not always about stamina, sister. Using a one-handed sword helps to your flexibility and can be used in defensive situations.”

“Now you are talking like Mylenne’s father.” His sister complains and snorts, removing her long silver hair out of her shoulder and her pale face, slightly annoyed at the seeming insistence of the wind to play with it.

That comment makes Mylenne crane her neck at her friend, looking at her through Jarod’s shoulders. “Despite everything that my father may be, we cannot object that he is not a respected warrior, Maiev,” The kaldorei retorts with a frown of her violet eyebrows.

“On that, we can agree, my friend,” Jarod adds with a thoughtful nod. But that only made Maiev become more annoyed, looking at them with frustration narrowed all around her lavender face.

“By the Goddess!” She exclaims, looking at them as if they suddenly had grown a second head. “If you two agree  _so much_  with him, then why do not get on with his crazy ideas and just  _bond_  together?”

At her irritation and her words, the two kaldorei look at Maiev with wide eyes on their faces, seemingly astonished to hear her speak in that way. “Sister, you can not—!” Jarod starts, but the woman at his side interrupted him.

“We do  _not agree_  with him!” Mylenne spits, suddenly irritated to bring the object of her sadness and her struggles to the conversation, making the frostsaber behind her rise its head and glance at its owner, slightly confused at her abrupt distressed state.

“And  _why_  do you not?” This time, Maiev asks in a genuine tone, but intently avoiding gazing at the male placed between the two kaldorei. “You and my brother were always good friends, and he— _we_ —have always been there for you. That is since… forever. As his own sister, I must say that he is a good man to consider as a potential mate. You do not agree?”

“We have discussed this before, Maiev,” Mylenne mutters, stroking and massaging her forehead with one hand. “And I have already said that my reasons are because of what you had said; we are  _friends_ , and you two are like my  _family_. Of course that I do not consider him like a piece of meat that one would claim so easily!”

“ _Everyone_  looks for a mate to claim, eventually, Mylenne. It is not only the  _quel’dorei_  who looks forward into having one.” Maiev snaps, but that seemed to be the breaking point for the male between them, which raised his hands in the air in an attempt to be noticed.

“Is nobody going to ask for  _my_  opinion on the subject, for once?” He exclaims, his voice terribly frustrated with the women at both his sides.

After a big exhale, he first directs to his sister. “Maiev, sister, I thank you for your kind words but I can speak for myself if needed.” Then, he turns to Mylenne, placing one big dark hand on her knee. “Myl, you do not need to justify your decisions once more, for I know you and also consider you my family as well. It is only your father who does not see that.”

But when Jarod tries to lock eyes with her and soothe her thoughts, Mylenne could not return his stare, her eyes fluttering shut and her face falling to her chest, the dark mood that had been clouding her thoughts since many weeks ago now returning and unwilling to let her go.

 _Why does it seem like I_ need _to choose a mate to bond with?_ She thinks to herself, fingertips idly grazing the hem of her creamy silk dress, but she did not dare to voice her thoughts to her friends, and much less when Maiev had already stated her opinion so clearly for her.

A warm hand strokes her knee, making Mylenne slowly lift her gaze at its owner. “What is it, Myl?” Jarod asks, his silver brows frowning in deep concern. “We will find a way to reject your father’s intentions with us; you do not need to worry about that.”

“Or, eventually, he will get tired of insisting,” Maiev adds with a shrug. “I am sure that, sooner or later, he will find another silly idea to entertain his senile mind…”

But, without hesitating, Mylenne rises from her spot, seemingly entrenched in her own disturbing thoughts to not realize that the Shadowsong brothers are now looking at her with worry in their faces. So, she tries for an excuse. “I am sorry, I… I need to take a walk.” With a quick glance at the Main Square, she adds, “I can bring some more wine and something to eat.”

Despite her excuses, she heads off without waiting for a response, her long and unbraided violet mane following her steps.

They were near to sunrise and the Mother Moon was close to coming to her resting hideout, but still, the Main Square is yet bursting with life; from merchants to aristocrats and guards, the loud chatting and prattling of kaldorei reached to her ears way before Mylenne could even reach the plaza.

With her head down and rooted within her thoughts, her feet still found their way into the decorated square, only raising her head when the smell of pine bread reached through her nose. Without thinking it twice—and probably because the task of gathering some food and drink for her and her friends isn’t in Mylenne’s priorities—she adjusts her silver cloak and places in line, deciding to just get on with it before resuming her walk.

After she collects her purchases, Mylenne heads to the center of the plaza, noticing that there was a small crowd gathered in the square. The kaldorei narrows her eyes in curiosity, to only lock her silver eyes on the back of a broad-shouldered, bright green-haired man, recognizing him—and the two females who were joining him, if their white robes were of any indication—within an instant.

But what Mylenne truly recognizes and, despite her efforts to do exactly the opposite, locks her eyes on, is the golden-eyed kaldorei who walks in the direction of the crowd, his pace confident behind his red and silver robes that could only belong to an initiate of the Moon Guard; his long, dark cobalt ponytail following his steps.

Something started to ache inside her chest at the sight.  _Is that elegant smile, that self-assurance, that confidence in those steps, what you truly become once you find your vocation in life?_

But when, behind the shoulder of a long navy haired woman, Illidan’s golden eyes lock with hers—as if he knew all along, somehow, that he was being observed—her breath hitches and her heart starts to race wildly inside her chest, making her cheeks to darken in a heavy blush. As fast as she could, she turns her gaze away from the handsome man.

Only to crash one side of her jaw onto a broad bare chest, making her grunt in pain and dropping the wine and bread that she’s carrying on the floor, the bottle of moonberry wine exploding on the impact and splashing everything at its sides.

Mylenne could only cover her mouth with her two hands when she notices that the folds of the male’s expensive pants got quite ruined, dark purple stains getting bigger and bigger when the silk started to absorb the wine. His pale leather shoes and Mylenne’s sandals also take the damage, as well as the hem of her creamy silk dress, now soaked with the liquid.

“I am so, so sorry…” She starts to apologize, her silver eyes wide with deep guilt and remorse.

But the man was enraged, staring at her as if he were trying to kill her with his eyes only, his face contorted in indignation. “Sorry!?” He exclaims, his voice loud and filled with anger. “You ruined my best robes and you are just  _sorry_?”

But then, the man blinks when he realizes that, thanks to his loud speaking, a lot of heads turn in his way, making his face to distort even more, like if he was struggling to contain his ire and maintain some dignity. Mylenne couldn’t do anything but to gaze at the floor, her lilac lips pressed in a thin line, but only to make her best and try not to  _laugh_  at the funny way that his face was contorting.

And the kaldorei fumes in front of her, apparently deciding that he needed to get moving before more people could see him in that awful state. “You will pay for this, lowborn.” He mutters with clenched teeth before taking his leave, making a lot of kaldorei who were staring at him to move to their sides and let him pass.

Fortunately for Mylenne, the sudden crowd that gathered started to dissipate, tending to their own duties and leaving her alone with her mess. When the enraged man finally got away from her sight, she kneels on the floor, attempting to recover some remains of the pine nut bread she had bought, finally allowing herself to release a soft giggle.

 _I was wrong to drink that much wine_ , Mylenne thinks when she couldn’t help it and her giggles turn into laughs, her silver eyes watering at her amusement. And she keeps her laughing, not really doing much effort into recollecting what was left of her ruined purchases.  _Father would be so ashamed if he could see me right now…_

It was not until her mirth started to subside and Mylenne opens her eyes, that she sees another pair of leather shoes right in front of her. Slowly, her eyes go up; first finding the symbol of a crescent silver moon placed in the middle of a bare muscled chest, and then glancing at a pair of bright golden eyes who are staring at her in deep amusement.

Her lips open slightly, but she finds that her mouth is suddenly dry. And that makes Illidan Stormrage cross his muscled arms over his chest and rest his weight on one of his hips, the smirk on his lips widening.

“So, tell me…” He says, the baritone of his voice caressing Mylenne’s ears as if it were music. “What is it that you find so  _amusing_  about my officer?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is **marked for rewriting**. I'll announce in the notes when this takes effect.


	3. Allured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the awful incident, Mylenne only attempts to walk away and return with her friends. However, Illidan looks decided to not be rejected once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/17: Switched into present tense and a sketch added.

** Darnassian: **

**Min’da:**  Mother.

 **Elune-adore:**  "Elune be with you."

* * *

** Stareye **

Mylenne attempts to make a good job of keeping her expressions serene and collected, but the very penetrating stare from the male above her is ruining all her efforts of maintaining her composure.

And that charming smirk coming from his dark lips only deepened her blushing even more so. Worst of all, he  _knows_  what his staring is provoking in her—if the funny tilt of his head is any indication of it—making the tips of his cobalt ponytail brush over his covered shoulder before resting upon his back.

For there is something about his posture and the confidence that surrounded him, that could only assure Mylenne that Illidan Stormrage is pretty much aware of his effect on females.

“As well as your purchases, have you also lost your tongue,  _Mylenne_?” He asks, rolling his tongue ever so slowly when he mentions her name, but with an elegant dark cobalt eyebrow rising up on his forehead in questioning.

Mylenne’s ears twitch at the sound of his voice, but her silver eyes were so focused on the way that his lips moved provocatively over his face, that she couldn’t find herself able to listen to him. It is only when he moved again—attempting to close the distance between them—when her eyes return to his unwavering stare; and her heart races so fast at the sight of the handsome man in front of her that the only sound that fills her ears gets to be from her own heartbeats.

And when she isn’t sure that her blush could even get deeper, she reacts in the only way that her body allows for her: She explodes in laughter.

“I was… that man… you…” She attempts for words, but her traitorous tongue doesn’t help her, and her eyes flutter close, body contorting in nervous giggles and struggling for some breath in between. Her long violet mane brushes over her face and her hands abandon their previous task, coming to rest on her knees, definitely giving up on her composure.

Her laughter gets contagious and Mylenne’s ears twitch once more when Illidan starts to chuckle above her. “Is it me or someone has drunk a little too much?” He says in a teasing voice, getting closer and outstretching a long dark hand for her. “Come, let me help you. I feel that you do not wish to stay on the dirty floor for much longer…”

She doesn’t think much about it and takes the offered hand, the male not showing any hard effort to help her to stand up. But then, it is when Illidan places his other hand on her left shoulder—in an attempt to help with her balance—that an odd  _tingle_  expands over that said shoulder, traveling over her neck and left arm, making Mylenne startle in surprise.

The smallest of gasps escapes from her lilac lips at the sensation, like a shock of electricity that makes her heart jump inside her chest. But she realizes that Illidan has felt the same as she, if his dark cobalt eyebrow now rising in interest was any indication of it.

But even when, from the corner of her eye, she sees him hesitating but he doesn’t remove his hand off her shoulder, she finds herself asking, “What was that?” in the lowest of tones, only for him to hear.

Illidan is so close to her now that her nostrils fill with his masculine scent; it’s a mix of a smell from oak trees to the refreshing aroma from the moonlight on his dark skin, but there is also a small acrid tang between it, something that Mylenne isn’t able to recognize.

“It is...” He starts, matching her low voice, his eyes traveling first to her slightly open lilac lips before resting on her silver gaze, his charming smirk returning once more, “It is the magic coursing through your veins.”

But with his words, Mylenne’s face went pale, and she quickly turns her eyes away from his penetrating stare, trying to step back and away from his touch. “No, I… I am afraid that you must be mistaken—“

“Am I?” Fortunately for her, he let her go, although with evident reluctance. “So, why is it that I can see the arcane energies flowing around you? Why is it that I can even smell the magic within you?” Illidan’s brows deepened into a frown at her silence. “Why do you  _deny_  your natural talents?”

But before she has to answer—and like a merciful gift from the Mother Moon—the sound of leather brushing over stone reaches their ears, making the dark cobalt haired man to crane his neck and look over his shoulder, with Mylenne following his eyes, both noticing three well-known faces walking to their position.

“Mylenne!” The feminine voice of her fellow Sister, Sylenna, calls for her. The kaldorei quickened her pace, lifting her creamy silk dress above her knees and coming to stand close to Illidan. “By the Goddess! What happened?”

“Sister Mylenne, are you well?” It is priestess Tyrande who speaks, this time, stopping right next to her companion and with Illidan’s twin, Malfurion, behind her steps.

Mylenne quickly glances at the male beside her, seeing how Illidan is trying to contain his irritation at the sudden interruption, but he succeeded in his task, for then he answers: “Oh, it was nothing serious, Tyra, only that the Sister happened to collide with Latosius…” He returns his stare to the violet-haired woman next to him, “Which is  _my officer_ , in case you did not notice.” He remarks to her.

“Mmh, you do not sound upset about it, brother,” Malfurion states with a tilt of his head, his bright green hair coming to rest on one of his shoulders.

With that, his golden-eyed twin chuckled, turning around to face the three kaldorei. “Why would I? You should have looked at his face, it was _priceless_!” Illidan confessed, his chuckles turning into genuine, contagious laughter.

Mylenne has to crane her neck to look at him, seemingly astonished at his statement, but could not help to join the mirth that starts to surround their little group. “He looks like a quite grumpy man, is he not?” Malfurion adds, his face barely containing his wide amused smile.

“Indeed,” Sylenna says with a seemingly shy smile on her elegant face. However, her gaze was placed somewhere else. “But, Mylenne… you look like a mess…” She continues, her eyebrows furrowing in concern as she takes a better look at her fellow Sister.

At her mentioning, Mylenne follows her gaze and looks down, realizing what is the object of her worries: Dark purple stains and splotches were covering the hem of her creamy silk dress, the fabric absorbing the remaining of her wasted moonberry wine and making the stains reach almost to her knees. With taking a simple look at it, it was obvious that the dress was ruined beyond repair.

In addition to that, her violet mane was disheveled, ruffled and messy, long strands of her hair falling down her face and her shoulders; and she didn't even dare to look at her back, for Mylenne is sure that there are vestiges of Rak’shareh’s bright fur clinging on her dress and the back of her head.

 _Sylenna is right. I must look ridiculous!_ She thinks, her blush returning with a renewed force and embarrassment striking through her, making her look away from her companions.  _This is probably why Illidan looks so amused… oh, Mother Moon, he must be thinking the worst of me right now!_

Then again—and oddly, as if she had voiced her thoughts—a strong, dark hand places again upon her shoulder. “Mylenne, are you well?” Illidan turns to her again, his baritone voice also deep in worry, golden eyes searching for hers. “You look pale…  _again_.”

“I am fine,” Mylenne mutters, trying to step away from Illidan and his  _oh so warm_  touch, making him frown even more. “But I should go. My friends are waiting for me.” She insists, unable to look at the four kaldorei surrounding her.

But it looked that the male beside her refused to take another rejection from her part. “You have already used that excuse yesterday,” Illidan remarks with a lift of his brow, “How about you just  _indulge me_  and let me walk you over to your friends?”

And before she could protest again, he captures her arm in his, giving Mylenne no other choice but to let him join her in her walk. Returning Malfurion and priestess Tyrande’s farewell with a curt nod, she admits—if only to herself—that a part of her was thankful for the company, for when her feet started to move, she realizes that her legs are a little bit wobbly and unsteady.

Though Mylenne couldn’t help but also notice Sylenna who just stood there, arms limp to her sides, looking at Illidan’s back with evident disappointment narrowed on her dark-skinned face. Unfortunately, the male seems to not notice that, turning his back at the Sister and only focusing on the violet-haired woman beside him.

Sunrise was upon them and, on their way back, Mylenne marvels at the beautiful landscape that faced the pair, the dark blue sky shifting ever so slowly into shades of purple and mauve with each passing minute, announcing the coming of the day and the unavoidable rest of the Mother Moon. While she feels Illidan’s golden eyes fixed on her, she was thankful for the silence, allowing her tense shoulders and muscles of her neck to relax with his safe hold on her arm.

Besides, guessing by only his movements—with his broad shoulders straightened, chin lifted up high—it seemed that Illidan was really enjoying the single act of walking next to her. At the very least, Mylenne is grateful that he acts like he is not only joining her out of pity but more because he  _wanted_  to.

But then, the reasons for his actions could also be related to one of the many ways to only feed his already quite big ego.

It was only when she blinks in an attempt to clear her mind when his baritone voice reaches to her pointy ears. “Within one minute, you were bursting into laughter,” Illidan starts, “But then, all in a sudden, you look sad once more. It is… confusing, to say the least.”

A tired sigh escapes her lips, but Mylenne keeps her silence, not really wanting to explain herself or voice her thoughts to this male that she barely knew. Her gaze travels to the silver bracelet that adorned Illidan’s wrist, lavender fingertips idly brushing over the metallic surface.

His pleasure for her touch seems to be evident when she feels the strong muscles of his arm relaxing even more so, his wrist shifting to the side as if his own warm skin was looking forward to being stroked. Even his voice softened, when he said, “What can be troubling you so much for you to not embrace your talents?”

Mylenne’s fingers twitch under his arm, barely containing her sharp intake of breath. “I do not have such talents.” She mutters with clenched teeth.

Illidan slows his pace, craning his neck to look at her in a seemingly shocked expression. “Mylenne, I do not understand… Why do you keep denying it?” He asks again, his mouth agape.

Her legs wobble again, next to her own distressed state of mind. There was something about Illidan’s incredulity on the subject that could not do anything but to upset her. “And why do you think that this… magic is a gift, a talent to embrace?”

“Because I do not question our Goddess, Elune, and her blessings upon her children,” Illidan answers without hesitation, convinced of his words, “And having natural abilities for sorcery cannot be anything but a blessing.”

_A blessing? These… twisted, distorted energies, are nothing but a blessing for him? By the Goddess, if Min’da could hear this man right now, she would… she would…_

“You are mistaken, Illidan. It is not a bless to me.” Her words come out from Mylenne’s mouth before her being able to stop them. Her jaw tightens and silver eyes flutter close, holding her breath in a weak attempt to stop the sudden rush of long past memories that start to assault her mind.

 _The soothing sound of her_ Min’da _’s voice rushes through her ears, her laughter filling her senses as if it were music; Then, the picture of her wide smile, which brightened and seemed to illuminate everything around her._

_Up next, it is the singing of beautiful purple sparrows, their translucent magical wings fluttering in the air, circling and following the tall kaldorei, unable to take their eyes away from her. Just like her daughter’s adoring gaze, just like the warm breeze coming from the forest which followed her every step, echoing the singing of the birds and yearning to caress her, just once…_

But then a strong dark hand placed upon her nimble fingers, an ever so small brush from Illidan’s thumb provoking a new tingle on Mylenne’s wrist, the sensation slowly expanding through her arm and clearing the thick fog that was clouding her mind, if only for a moment.

With a blink, Mylenne realizes that they had stopped. Her confused eyes travel up and her lilac lips slightly open at the sight of the first rays of sunlight caressing Illidan’s sharp features, enhancing his golden—and now, gleaming with worry—orbs, which were placed on her.

Her heart jumps again. How could it be that—even if his behavior were of a confident and arrogant male—in her eyes Illidan Stormrage seem nothing but  _oh, so beautiful_?

He leans an inch closer to her, like attempting to get her complete attention. “I cannot imagine what it is troubling you so much, Mylenne,” Illidan says, his voice soft but filled with concern, “But, if you allow me, I can help…”

“Help?” She whispers, barely able to find her voice. “Why do you wish to help me? Wh—why would I want your help?” Her voice falters for a second, her breath hitching at his closeness.

But if Illidan is conscious of her nervousness, he did a good job of hiding it, for then he turned to fully face her, his hand abandoning hers and traveling to her bare shoulder. “Because your energies will control and overwhelm you if you do not something about it.” He explains, his features turning serious for once.

A sudden frown crossed Mylenne’s pale forehead, “That is nonsense. What are you talking about, Illidan?” She asks, her voice showing her apparent confusion.

“The arcane magic within you,  _within us_ , is nothing less than energies. And those energies need to be controlled and released.” Illidan clarifies for her, but his shoulders collapsed when the woman in front of him deepened her frown. “Think about it as the air you breathe: You may hold your breath as long as you can, but eventually, your lungs will force you to take oxygen. It is inevitable.”

The sound of leather sandals and heavy paws brushing over thick grass provoked a twitch in one of Mylenne’s ears, making her turn her eyes away from the handsome man and notice the couple of silver-haired kaldorei, walking side by side with a frostsaber following their steps, rounding the corner of the street.

Her eyes softened when she recognized the Shadowsong brothers, the unique sense of familiarity filling and warming her chest. Although there was another warm touch upon her shoulder and Mylenne returned her attention to the male in front of her. “And still, you have not explained yourself. Why do you wish to help  _me_? You do not know me…”

And with her words, all his concerns suddenly brushed away from his face. An elegant, dark cobalt eyebrow rose teasingly upon his forehead. “And that cannot be because I  _would like to_?” He says, with that ever so charming smirk returning to his lips once more.

For the sake of her, Illidan lets go of her shoulder, allowing her to place some distance between them. Although his stare never wavers, his golden eyes searching for her every small reaction, first noticing her slight blushing returning to her pale cheeks and then looking at how her eyes rolled to the side in seeming amusement.

With her senses slowly returning, the violet haired kaldorei decides to remain silent, allowing her little smirk to speak for when her words would not. But when she turns away to resume her walking, the male takes a quick step and places in front of her, blocking her way. “Wait, Mylenne. I… may I ask you one more question?”

The sudden shift and the different tone of his voice make the woman blink thrice in surprise. It felt like he was trying to buy some more time with her, and the bare thought of it rendered her speechless and still in her spot.   

“I believe that you do not have a partner to attend to the Moon Festival?” Illidan asks then, too quickly, almost stumbling over the words.

“You are right, I do not.” Mylenne answers without thinking, feeling too entranced with the abrupt change in the male’s stance and voice to be able to consider her words.

Then, she hears more than sees the slight intake of breath, but her eyes capture the exact moment when the fingers from one of his long, strong hands twitch and hesitate before taking her nimble palm in his. “Would you like to go with me?” He says, and his voice was so small when he speaks again, like if he was struggling with his inner thoughts.

Mylenne’s head tilts backwards in disbelief, although her reaction is not related to his unexpected proposal but with the abrupt change in his attitude: For when a mere couple of seconds ago she was facing at the confident, almost arrogant and ever so flirting personality that Illidan Stormrage portrayed everywhere, now she feels like she’s looking at an entirely different man.

And his invitation isn’t doing anything but to confuse her even more so. Not really aware of her silence, her mind starts to drift away once more.

She’s aware that she merely knows him—although it was quite difficult to not know at least the name of every kaldorei on Suramar, given the centuries and thousands of years spent among its citizens—but Mylenne knows that she didn’t have to get acquainted with Illidan to know the very palpable facts about him.

Because everyone that interacted with Malfurion Stormrage’s twin, at least once, knew about his ever so charming personality, about his awareness of his effect on females—and even some males as well—and his discrete tendency to take advantage of his handsome features and use them for his own purposes.

And the dark cobalt haired man was quite known to be a shameless flirt, but that knowledge only left Mylenne more confused about his present display. Because she was prepared and unconsciously expecting his teasing, but that hesitance? That sudden  _shyness_ in his tone? She was not prepared for that.

And, most of all, why would he ask  _her_ , of all kaldorei, to join him on the Moon Festival? He could have any woman he wanted at his feet in mere minutes—and the thought of it made the image of the disappointed dark skinned Sister they had left at the plaza to cross her mind, as a perfect example—and without much difficulty. Why, then, he was expressing his interest in  _her,_  probably one of the very few females on Suramar that hadn’t yet fallen to his charm?

“Why do you ask me and not Sylenna?” Mylenne then asks with genuine curiosity. “She seems to be quite interested in going with you, I must admit.”

She notices the small cringe of his sharp nose at the mention of her fellow Sister but decides not to dwell on it. However, what is really odd for her is the confusing blinking of his golden eyes at her words. “You really do not know why? Are you  _that oblivious_  to it?” Illidan says as if he did not believe what he’s hearing.

Her violet eyebrows deepened into a frown. “Perhaps I am.” Mylenne decides for admission, for she was growing a little tired of answering questions with more questions. Besides, the huge amount of thoughts that were assaulting her mind was not helping her to think clearly.

“You still are not giving me an answer. Would you like to go together?” He then repeats, but she notices that he makes a big effort to not look irritated, if the tightening of his jaw is any indication of it.

Although, the small and slow return of his familiar attitude suddenly helps into clear her confused thoughts about him, and Mylenne unconsciously bites her lower lip in an attempt to hide her smirk when understanding dawns on her.  _Of course_ , she then realizes, slapping herself mentally for not figuring that out before.

 _It is not that he is interested in me,_ Mylenne admits to herself.  _He is only looking forward to the challenge._ And she really wants to physically slap herself for being unaware of that before, feeling like a fool for her previous innocent and childish thinking.

She feels distressed again, for she will never know why the males would always make her feel like some piece of meat to be claimed—with the single exception of Jarod Shadowsong—but the bare thought of it couldn't do anything but upset her.

So, before regretting it, Mylenne crosses her arms on her chest and chooses to give Illidan a piece of his own medicine.  “You were right with what you had said to Sister Thania, as of yesterday.” She starts to explain, narrowing her silver eyes and lifting her chin to look at his face when she speaks, almost in a defiant way. “I am not concerned about bringing a partner with me, for I have many obligations to attend to before focusing on  _such trivial matters_.” She allows her tongue to roll slowly in her mouth, repeating Illidan’s own words with a hint of mockery in her voice.

But then, her confidence almost falters when that charming,  _disarming_  smirk returned to his dark lips, and Illidan takes a step closer to her, daring to enter to her personal space and only confirming her previous statements about his attitude. _He definitely likes to be challenged._

“You are certainly making a good job of rejecting me, Mylenne.” He then confesses, his tone deep and teasing, making the tips of her sensitive ears slightly twitch in the mere pleasure of hearing his voice.  

She tries to maintain her composure and her defensive stance, but Illidan’s almost burning stare on her didn’t help at the very least, her heart starting to race once more at his proximity. “And when did I have the chance to reject you?” She wonders, opting for deflection before starting to struggle with her words.

His smirk then widens, as if he was quite aware of what she’s trying to do, “Is that a yes, then?” He insists, placing himself mere inches away from her.

It is only when his hand travels to her shoulder—in a seeming attempt to brush some of her violet strands away—that her defensive stance finally crumbles, and Illidan’s golden eyes beam in deep satisfaction when her  _traitorous_  body shudders in reaction to the ghost touch of his fingertips on her skin.

 _Oh Goddess, please grant me strength_ , she pleads and her eyes flutter close, trying to make her best and collect what was left of her sanity. But all she could do was to hold a pleased sigh that tried to escape from her lips.  

It feels unusual, to say the least, but it is her body who wins its inner battle against her mind, and she finally relaxes, leaning to the warm touch of his fingers upon her shoulder. “ _No_ , but perhaps… I will see you there anyway.” She then admits, her voice thin and too weak for her liking.

She dares to look at him again, finding Illidan’s smirk now transformed into a wide, pleased smile, almost leaving her breathless. And she can’t help, afterward, when her body betrays her once more and her own hands lift to his shoulders, pushing him down for her to place a full, warm kiss on one of his dark cheeks.

He leans his cheek to her lips and his fingers slightly tighten on her shoulder, as if his own body was struggling with the same inner battle that Mylenne was having mere moments ago, and all but  _craved_  to feel her lips, if only for another second.

“Elune-adore, Illidan.” She whispers to the crook of his neck, her senses filling with his masculine scent and feeling more than hearing his satisfied sigh close to her ear. “And thank you for the walk.”

She feels him hesitating for a very small moment, but finally let go of her shoulder, allowing her to take a step back and watch how his broad chest inflates in an intake of breath, the evident satisfaction narrowing his features.

“It was my pleasure, Mylenne,” Illidan answers with an elegant tilt of his head, never taking his eyes away from her. “And I will look forward to meeting you at the Festival…”

The violet-haired woman is the first to turn and walk away, going in the direction where she had last seen her friends. But not even the warm breeze of the morning is able to brush away the smirk that is placed on her lips, or the almost burning touch that she still feels on her shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is **marked for rewriting**. I'll announce in the notes when this takes effect.


	4. Piercing Gaze of Elune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What should she say, that she didn’t have said before? Should she had to say to Maiev how stressful and frustrating it was to spend her ever ending years like that, forever acting and living up to someone else’s expectations?
> 
> But how could she be certain of what she thought or her feelings towards it? After so many centuries of submitting to her father and her people’s requests upon her, she wasn’t sure when was the last time that she did something because she _wanted to_ and not otherwise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/17: Switched into present tense.

** Darnassian: **

**Quel'dorei** **:** Children of noble birth. Also slang for “Highborne”.

 **Ishnu-alah:** “Good fortune to you”. Greeting.

* * *

** Stareye **

There was so much going on in Mylenne’s mind and heart, that even the soft glowing of the moonlight coming from the marble ceiling of the Temple was not doing anything to soothe her distressed state.

Barely containing an annoyed grunt, the kaldorei kneels on the porcelain floor, ever careful with her new and recently bought creamy silk dress, and glances to the side, finding her fellow Sister Thania so concentrated in her daily prayer that not even her sensitive ears twitch in reaction to Mylenne’s steps, which echoes through the entire main chamber.

Moving her long purple braid away from her shoulder and onto her back, she joins her palms and imitates Thania’s position, bowing her head and facing the glowing wide ray of moonlight that falls from the top of the ceiling to the center of the chamber.

After a long intake of breath, she reluctantly closes her eyes and decides to—at the very least—try to get her daily prayer done and over with, even if she’s not really sure that the task would help with her clouded mind.

But the porcelain floor is hard and cold below her knees, and the feeling of the moonlight on her skin is not soft and soothing as usual. Her big silver choker collar itches against her slender neck and her new dress—which she had bought in a rush after the awful accident, barely three weeks ago—feels tighter than the previous one, this one cinching her waist in an uncomfortable way and compressing her ribs and breasts.

She wants to blame the tailor for making a dress with a smaller size that she needed, but to be honest, Mylenne knows that it would be mean of her to do so. Much less when, after she had looked at herself in the mirror that night, she marveled at the way that the clothes helped in accentuating the best features of her body, and her mind had drifted away once more.

So, Mylenne could not blame the tailor for his bad choice in the size. If she needed to blame someone it was only herself… and that dress for making her feel  _attractive_.

_No. I must not blame the tailor or myself. This ridiculous choice of clothing is the fault of no one but Illidan Stormrage and that charming smile of his._

A grunt took its way through her lilac lips, her eyebrows furrowing in frustration. In her best attempt to be discrete and not disturb her Sisters, the kaldorei silently tries to adjust her collar and her robes, doing her best to concentrate and finish her task.

But, after a couple of minutes, Mylenne figures out that it’s useless, for the bright moonlight coming from the ceiling is not soothing her tonight, and the quiet main chamber only makes her drift further into her thoughts.

Her teacher must have noticed her commotion because, when the violet-haired woman rises from her spot and makes her way out of the chamber, she only nods thoughtfully and moves to the side to let Mylenne pass. The kaldorei brushes her teacher’s arm in silent apology, but could not gaze away from the floor, guilt and embarrassment narrowing her features.

Her way to the Temple’s balcony is rushed and clumsy, with her steps echoing loudly on the outer chambers, but if someone was disturbed with her noises, Mylenne is never aware of it. Once she makes it out and to the cold air of the night, she unwraps the last strands of her tight braid and inhales deeply, searching for nothing but to relax her tense muscles.

The sky was starless and cloudy that night, but that is not an excuse for the cold breeze to rush and play with her now free hair, its murmurs tickling her pointy ears when it caressed her lavender skin, stroking her bare arms and shoulders like the tender embrace of a child.

Mylenne always enjoyed the feeling of the wind on her skin, bringing her the very best memories of her childhood and her hunting in the forest with her  _Min’da_. Resting her arms on the railing and fluttering her eyes shut, she marvels at how—a thousand years after her departure—the memory of the stunning woman that brought her to this world was still intact and untouched.

It was on cold, windy nights like this, where if Mylenne closed her eyes and concentrated in hearing the whispers of the breeze, she could barely hear the soothing sound of her  _Min’da_ ’s laughter next to the soft singing of sparrows. And, even when it was probably a product of her own imagination, she could swear that she  _felt_  the arms of her mother encircling her and brushing her hair out of her shoulders, through the embrace of the wind.

Although the sensation never lasted for long because, in the next minute—or hour, Mylenne could not be sure of that—a nimble warm hand travels through her arm and placed upon her shoulders, the figure of a silver-haired woman entering on her line of sight.

Maiev Shadowsong rests her free hand above her own, over the railing, and returns the shy smile that Mylenne gives her. “And, once more, you look like you are far away from the world of mortals,” Maiev says with a hint of mockery, but barely tightening her grip on her when Mylenne leans her head on her shoulder. “Are you well, Myl?”

“I am, my friend. It is only…” Mylenne sighs deeply on Maiev’s shoulder, her arms and body leaning closer to her, looking for the comfort she needs, “I do not feel able to pray tonight, that is all.”

“And  _when_  were you?” Maiev attempts again for a joke, leaning her cheek on top of Mylenne’s head, pulling her closer to her embrace. “It is alright. I never figured you for a real priestess, anyway…”

“After all this time, I also cannot picture myself as one.” The violet-haired woman confesses with a low snort, eliciting a chuckle out of her friend.

The women go silent for a while, only listening to the agitated rising of the wind and looking at the clouded sky, waiting for the inevitable arrival of the storm that the violent gale was bringing upon Suramar. Even though they still had some time before looking for some shelter against the rain, both kaldorei tightened their hold on the other, finding the warmth they needed in their embrace.

Maiev is the first to break the silence, her voice tinted with concern when she next said, “What is going on in that thick head of yours?”

Mylenne sighs deeply, unknowing of where to start or even what to say to her friend. What should she say, that she didn’t have said before? Should she had to say to Maiev how stressful and frustrating it was to spend her ever ending years like that, forever acting and living up to someone else’s expectations?

But how could she be certain of what she thought or her feelings towards it? After so many centuries of submitting to her father and her people’s requests upon her, she wasn’t sure when was the last time that she did something because  _she wanted to_  and not otherwise.

But Maiev’s pale hand was now brushing her arm, encouraging her to at least try to voice her thoughts, and so Mylenne did. “Father, mother, my training as a Sister, you and Jarod… This  _ridiculous_  small dress I bought. There is a lot going in my head, so I suggest you take your pick.” She whispers, feeling her voice weaker as ever.

Fortunately, Maiev recognizes that tone of hers, making Mylenne feel glad for the first time on that night and thankful of having one of her dearest friends listening and comforting her. “All right, let us return to the present, then. Maybe I should start giving you the latest news about me and my brother…” Maiev hesitates in the middle of her sentence, and Mylenne feels more than sees the frowning of her silver eyebrows, “… and your father.”

Her last words make Mylenne disentangle from her embrace, silver eyes traveling up to meet her friend’s face. “Father? What has he done this time?” She asks, wide-eyed and suddenly alarmed. “Has he done something to Jarod? I should…”

Maiev lifts her now free hand to her, interrupting her sentence. “You should do nothing, my friend; Jarod is already dealing with him.” She informs Mylenne with a scowl. “Your father is,  _once more_ , attempting to get Jarod into his lines, but you should not need to worry about it. Lord Ravencrest will not give up one of his best warriors to him. I can assure you of that.”

“I should attempt to make him listen to reason, nonetheless.” Mylenne insists, her lilac lips frowning on a thin line, barely able to contain her growing annoyance. “He cannot spend his days trying to get control over everyone else’s lives, Maiev. It is—”

“Disgusting, unethical,” Maiev shrugs next to her, “Call it whatever you want, but still, it is how he is, and probably no one is going to change that, so why should we waste our breaths?”

With that, the violet-haired woman has to drop her head and sigh deeply, giving up—if not reluctantly—on the subject. While she had to agree with her friend and admit that she had a point, unfortunately, that didn’t ease her discrepancy towards her father’s actions.

_Will he always be like this, even if Jarod and I accept his offer and become lifemates?_

However, Mylenne was quite done with going over those thoughts all over again. So, when both of the girls took another couple of minutes to adjust their cloaks over their bare shoulders, curiosity gets the better of her, and she asks, “Why are you here, my friend? I was not expecting you today…”

Maiev leans on the frame of the door’s entrance to the balcony, her hands hidden behind her back. “I am waiting for my audience with Dejahna. The High Priestess requested me to discuss my new assignment.” A satisfied smirk travels to Maiev’s lips, the kaldorei never making an attempt to hide it. “Remember what we talked about on our dinner, three weeks ago? It appears that Mother Moon listened to my prayers and… I am going to be settled on the Hajiri Temple!”

“By Elune, that is wonderful news!” Mylenne celebrates, a big smile plastered on her lavender face while she rushes to Maiev’s side, all previous thoughts forgotten. “I am so happy for you, my friend! Does Jarod know already?”

“He is supposed to come over once the audience concludes. I just want to be sure of this before telling him.” Maiev’s shoulders lift to shrug nonchalantly; however, the shy smirk directed at Mylenne tells her everything she needs to know.

Tonight could be the night where Maiev’s dream, the critical step she had been waiting for 200 years to take on her career as a Sentinel, might come true. Her future was about to be decided in a single audience with the High Priestess and Maiev’s life was about to change drastically in only a matter of hours and a couple of words.

However, where Mylenne would be unconvinced about everything, there was something in her life that she would never be doubtful about, and that was her absolute familiarity with the Shadowsong brothers. So, she definitely understood Maiev’s hesitance about announcing her departure to her brother.

While the two kaldorei returned to their previous spot and braced their arms over the balcony’s railing, Mylenne’s thoughts drifted to the second kaldorei she loved the most in the world.

If Maiev was about to be transferred to the Hajiri Temple—and she  _will_ , for it was not a single doubt about it—that would be the first time in 1500 years where Jarod and she would share their days alone.

Would Jarod be as scared as her with the thought of being away from Maiev when he finally gets the incoming news? What are they going to do without her at their side?

Even with the potent and barely violent gust of the wind that was rushing and flying across Suramar, the rain resisted to fall upon them; through the corner of her eye, Mylenne noticed tiny, seemingly shy silver-white rays trying to get their way through the dark gray clouds.

It’s when those weak rays reach the tips of Maiev’s tied silver hair that she speaks again. “You know, maybe you should travel to Hajiri with me…” She says, her shoulders down and arms relaxed over the railing, ever so calm, as if she were talking about the weather around them.

Mylenne’s brows lift, feeling curious. “Should I? What are you suggesting?” She asks, craning her head to meet Maiev’s gaze.

Maiev only gives her a nonchalant shrug at first. “Have you considered trying to initiate as a Sentinel? You can start training on the Hajiri Temple.” Before meeting Mylenne’s gaze, she captures one of her hands in hers. “Have you thought about it, Myl? Just the two of us and our moonglaives, fighting side by side in Elune’s name?”

The violet-haired woman allows herself to daydream with her friend, if only for a moment. Although she didn’t quite remember the last time she held a moonglaive, the picture of the two women—dressed up in Sentinel leather armor, running through the forest upon their frostsaber’s backs, with only the ever present moon as their witness—was nothing but beautiful.

And when was the last time she did something because she  _wanted to_  and not otherwise?

“That sounds amazing, my friend, it really does,” Mylenne admits with a wide smile. However, she thinks that it would be better to be honest, and then adds, “Although Jarod may hate us for losing all the fun.”

The genuine laugh coming from Maiev echoes through the marble ceiling of the Temple, quieting the gentle whispers from the wind that were still present on Mylenne’s ears. Without being able to resist it, Mylenne joins on the laughs, both women relaxing and leaning even further over the balcony’s railing.

“Will he?” Maiev ponders between cackles. However, the other kaldorei feels more than sees her small hesitation after her friend removes some strands of her hair out of her face. “Or is...  _someone else_  who would neither be glad about your departure?”

Mylenne’s forehead wrinkle into a frown, making her wonder what, in Elune’s name, is her friend talking about. However, it is actually thanks to the renewed moonlight now reflecting and caressing her face that she finds her answer, right when the kaldorei turns her eyes away from Maiev and glances at the landscape before her.

And the shimmering rays of the moon are not strong enough to blind her and not recognize the pair of bright golden eyes that are staring at her from the street, below the stairs of the Temple.

It was dazzling, the way that Illidan Stormrage always looked at her, the way that his gaze never faltered when she was in his sights. It is now, with that ever wavering stare of his, when she feels as if he’s only focusing on the single thing  _worth looking at_.

It was hypnotizing—to say the least—to feel those stunning golden eyes on her, making her mouth go dry and her heart to leap and go wild inside her chest. And if there’s one thing Mylenne is sure of, it is that  _no one_  ever looked at her in the way Illidan did.

Not in her whole 2100 years, anybody ever made her feel the way he did at that moment; admired, revered…  _worshipped_.

But something brushed one of her shoulders and, all of a sudden, the captivating moment was gone, making the kaldorei flinch and look away, breaking eye contact with the man on the street. Mylenne was about to reprimand her friend for startling her but hesitates when she finds the amused stare that Maiev directs at her. “If I did not know you better, I would say that you saw a ghost,” Maiev says, barely containing the smirk plastered on her face.

“By the Goddess, you almost give me a heart attack!” Mylenne protests in a low voice, doing her best to not be overheard. However, curiosity gets the better of her and her eyes dare to steal another glance at the brothers walking over the street, closing in on the Temple.

It seems like the males are discussing something, judging by the deep frown coming from the bright green-haired man and his brother grimacing in response. Still, their dispute never lasted for long, for in the next moment, both of them looked at the balcony and waved in Mylenne and Maiev’s direction.

While the women returned the gesture, drawing the symbol of Elune above their heads, Mylenne caught herself a little entranced at the sight of the Stormrage brothers; for when their kinship was obvious, there was something about the twins’ expressions that were quite different for everyone to see.

When Malfurion’s silver gaze was comforting and soothing, washing over her like the ever gentle waves of a river, Illidan’s golden orbs were electric, kindled, and intense.

And they may be twins, with the same nose and the same curve on their jaws, but regarding their spirits, when Malfurion was like water, Illidan was like fire.

Maiev is the first to turn away from the street, brushing her friend’s arm in a silent gesture to do the same. Resting their backs on the balcony’s railing, Maiev says. “I must admit I cannot find either of them… appealing.”

“Oh? How so?” Mylenne wonders, crossing her arms over her chest after brushing her violet mane out of her shoulders.

“I know what the majority of women think about the Stormrage brothers; I am not  _that_  oblivious. Perhaps it is what I have heard of them,” Maiev admits, her silver brows furrowing, “Still, Malfurion seems so…  _boring_  to me.”

Mylenne laughs heartily at her apparent confession. “I believe that priestess Tyrande would not agree with you, my friend.”

“I know, and neither would Sylenna, if she ever hears me,” Maiev’s tone is wary this time and even with mentioning her fellow Sister’s name, her eyes are fixed on Mylenne’s face. “Actually, who concerns me the most is his brother. And do not give me that look, for I can see the way you look at him, Myl.”

Mylenne could not help but to roll her eyes. “All right, Maiev. Go, enlighten me. What is wrong with Illidan?” She deadpans with a hint of annoyance in her voice.

The silver-haired kaldorei crosses her arms in a defensive—but yet, resolute—posture. “I believe you are rather unaware of his nature, Mylenne,” Maiev speaks with caution at first, but her voice shifts as she continues, “He seems brash, arrogant, and kind of a  _beguiler_  to me. Besides, I have heard about his wishes to get into the Moon Guard order, and I believe that you already know my feelings towards his kind.”

The violet-haired woman hums in thought while rubbing the bridge of her nose, in an attempt to ease her distress about the subject. However, she remains silent, for there’s nothing to say against that; much less when the same thoughts concerning Illidan’s nature have already crossed her mind, after her last encounter with him.

But Maiev continued her speech. “Regardless, I do not intend to judge you, Myl, for you clearly see something in him that I do not.” The woman clarifies, placing a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of comfort, “I am only trying to warn you. Just… keep in mind that he is a  _sorcerer_  and sorcerers—“

“Sorcerers are not to be trusted. I know.” Mylenne interrupts her, nodding in consideration. “He had already voiced his curiosity towards my abilities, and it concerns me just as much as you, Maiev.”

“Did he?” Mylenne only nods in answer. “Are you saying that your…  _inner magic_  is the only reason for why he seems interested in you?” Maiev ponders, her lips frowning in a thin line.

“Yes. No. I am unsure.” Mylenne says with a shake of her head, unable to avoid a shudder at the mention of her inherited abilities. “It is very confusing, to say the least. He has been anything but kind to me, so I cannot really be sure of what is he looking for.”

With her statement, Maiev shrugs nonchalantly. “I would not be surprised if he is looking forward to getting a place among the  _quel’dorei_.”

Mylenne’s silver eyes open wide, feeling shocked with her friend’s choice of words. Her heart raced inside her chest and her hands tighten her grip on the balcony’s metallic railing, repeating Maiev’s words inside her head and feeling how her mind struggles with the big amount of emotions that rush through her.

Could it be possible that it was because of  _that_  why Illidan seemed so interested in her? It was sick,  _disgusting_  to even think of him that way, but it was even worse for her to think that—at some point—Maiev’s assumptions made some sense.

Her mind drifted to the memory of him, barely three weeks ago, when she had spotted him in the Main Square of Suramar, dressed up in his Moon Guard robes and talking with priestess Tyrande. She remembered how confident he acted, like seemingly proud to be where he was. And while on that day she reluctantly admired his self-assurance, now she couldn’t help with feeling disappointed at the thought of him.

In that moment, Mylenne felt like a terrible fool, for she had not thought about him in that way.

But her consternations disappear as fast as they come, exactly when one of the initiates appear on the balcony, searching for Maiev to take her to the High Priestess’ chambers.

Her friend turns to her one last time, taking Mylenne’s hands in hers after she adjusts the hood of her cloak over her head. “Will you wait for me, my friend?” Maiev asks with evident anxiety in her voice.

“Of course, my dear Maiev,” Mylenne reassures her with a wide smile, tightening her grip for just a second. “Now go, you should not keep the High Priestess waiting.”

* * *

It is the middle of the night and the Moon had already reached its peak, but Mylenne held no wishes to return to her usual activities. She had been waiting for her friend, who left to the High Priestess’ chambers more than an hour ago, and the growing anxiety was getting the better of her. She needed to leave the Temple, at least for the night; that she is sure of.

But what about the Stormrage brothers? Are they still outside or, perhaps, they had only passed through? Mylenne hadn’t encountered priestess Tyrande that night to be certain that Malfurion and Illidan came with the single purpose of finding their friend; however, she’s also aware that it was still early for Tyrande’s activities to be over.

With a not-so-elegant move, she disentangled from her silver cloak and massaged her temple.  _Goddess! I am acting like a stupid child._ Min’da _would be so amused if she could see me right now…_

After taking three deep breaths and adjusting the  _ridiculous_  small dress—which she had bought with no real purpose—pulling the silk up to cover her chest, she forces her mind and thoughts to shut up, at least for once.

_Elune will grant me the strength I need, for I cannot be seemingly afraid to come across two males I barely even know. I must not panic for such silly matters like this._

The main chambers are still silent and quiet when the kaldorei walks to the entrance, and if some fellow Sister notices her early departure, Mylenne realizes that she didn’t care as much as she should, her gaze idly focused in some adornment over her silver metallic bracelets.

The ever present Suramar breeze caressing her face and toying with her violet hair is the first thing she feels when she places her feet outside the Temple of Elune, as if announcing her newfound freedom. She could not help but sigh deeply in relief when she dares to steal a glance to the marble stairs and finds them empty of people.

 _Thank you, Mother Moon_ , she prays with a grateful smile, starting to descend the stairs and feeling how her stress diminishes with each step she takes, leaving all her problems behind and inside the Temple’s doors.

But then, as she keeps her descent, the scent of some acrid tang reaches to her nose, joined and mixed with the strong smell of oak trees, and her trepidation returns once more. Her senses now recognize those scents, even more so, the particular smell of  _magic._

Her gaze goes up and away from the marble steps, and Mylenne’s heart misses a beat at the surprising sight of the Stormrage brothers, now rounding the bottom end of the Temple’s stairs.

Startled, she freezes in her spot, unable to even say something when her eyes find Illidan’s  _oh so beautiful_  golden ones beaming at her, a wide joyful smile plastered all over his dark skinned face.

She tries to speak again, but her tongue is rebellious and her heart starts to race once more when Illidan takes a step forward, allowing the moonlight to caress his long cobalt hair, always tied up into a ponytail.

Mylenne isn’t sure if she could be more stupid as she feels at that moment, almost gaping at the sight of the handsome man now climbing the marble stairs, but what could she say? Should she really have to say something, when those intense golden eyes were now staring at her as if she were the most beautiful thing to be seen?

Only the Goddess knows how she  _tries_ to do something and somehow, keep her composure. But while she attempts to focus her gaze on the green-haired male—now seemingly confused, if she could judge by the furrowing of his thick brows and the tilting of his head—now left behind at the bottom of the stairs, the sound of Illidan’s baritone voice reaches her ears.

“ _Ishnu-alah_ , Mylenne. It is so good to see you.” Illidan greets her with that usual dazzling and charming smile of his; making her shudder and blush all over her cheeks and neck. And only one single thought crosses her mind after hearing his voice.

_This ridiculous dress is too tight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks and big big big crushing hugs for those new readers who are encouraging me and rooting for this story. You rock <3
> 
> This chapter is **marked for rewriting**. I'll announce in the notes when this takes effect.


	5. Celestial Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The pupils of Illidan’s eyes glowed in delight at the view of the pale purplish-blue aura that came out of her skin, making it sparkle and shine with the reflection of the Moon all over her, enhancing her bright silver eyes, filled with wonder and innocence. And her creamy silk robes were doing nothing but accentuating every curve of her slender, delicate body. His mouth went dry, for he could not think of another sight more stunning than her.
> 
> That beauty, that grace, could only be compared—and Mother Moon may forgive him for his boldness—with _the Goddess herself_."

** Darnassian: **

**Ishnu-alah:** “Good fortune to you”. A greeting.

 **Alah darnana dor:**  Formal greeting.

 **Alor’el ana** **:** Arcane spell.

 **Sael'ah:**  “You’re welcome.”

* * *

** Stormrage **

“ _Ishnu-alah_ , Mylenne. It is so good to see you.”

He meant it, just as he meant every single word he had ever said to her. However, as for being the second kaldorei around the square blessed with the Mother Moon’s skills for arcane magic, Illidan knows that ‘good’ wasn’t the word he was looking for.

In fact, he is  _delighted_  to see her.

Illidan feels more than sees the uncomfortable shifting and the confused stare of his brother, alone at the bottom of the marble stairs leading to the Temple of Elune. Although a small part of him feels pleased with the small retribution he gets—the ever so bittersweet taste of payback—the rest of his senses are focused on the violet-haired woman in front of him.

With the pale moonlight reflecting on both of them, the hairs on his neck get up in sudden realization of how time seemingly had stopped for him. Illidan’s vision gets blurry and dark around the corners and the natural need for blinking and adjust his sight never comes. Everything starts to distort and fade into thick black in his surroundings; from the massive alabaster columns of the Temple’s main entrance to the cerulean trees adorning the plaza.

Every single detail fades, except her. His breath hitches, marveling at the view of her bright long— _oh so long,_  and he could spend weeks by only looking at it—violet mane rippling in waves, caressing her bare shoulders and arms. A sharp tang of pure jealousy rushes through him with the sight of the wind, its invisible fingers  _daring_  to stroke her skin without remorse or fear of breaking the spell that encloses her.

The pupils of Illidan’s eyes glow in delight at the view of the pale purplish-blue aura that comes out of her skin, making it sparkle and shine with the reflection of the Moon all over her, enhancing her bright silver eyes, filled with wonder and innocence. And her creamy silk robes did nothing but accentuate every curve of her slender, delicate body. His mouth goes dry, for he could not think of another sight more stunning than her.

That beauty, that grace, could only be compared—and Mother Moon may forgive him for his boldness—with  _the Goddess herself_.

And then, it took only a blink for the spell to disappear and her magical energy to recede inside of her. However, thanks to his magically enhanced senses, the aura of her never fades completely.

After what it seems like eons to him—but probably it were mere seconds—Malfurion climbs the stairs to stand beside his brother, bowing his green-haired head respectfully at Mylenne. “ _Alah darnana dor_ , Sister.” He greets her with a polite smile.

Illidan glances at his brother through the corner of his golden eyes, frowning in thought at the casual sound of his voice. For a moment, he wonders if he is the only kaldorei in the world blessed with the ability to see the natural beauty of Mylenne, for he couldn’t understand how such a remarkable woman as her could even  _walk_  the lower areas of Suramar City without anyone suggesting her against it.

The outskirts of the city belong to the poor and the unworthy. It is the place for the ones without households, without important names or with petty aspirations, and a woman like her was certainly unfit to walk among the lowly kaldorei; with such beauty, such  _magic_  within her, she deserves to be among the Highborne.

Even more so, for with such unique magnificence, if someone asked for Illidan’s opinion, he would say that Mylenne definitely deserved a place beside the Grand Magistrix Elisande.

“ _Ishnu-alah_ , Malfurion… Illidan,” Her voice wavers at the mention of his name, but Illidan also notices how she intentionally avoids looking at him. “I must say it is surprising to see you so early in the night.”

Malfurion quirks a green brow at her, leaning on one hip. “It is also surprising to see a Sister wandering outside the Temple at this early hour.” He says, his voice thick with something dangerously close to suspicion.

Illidan turns to his brother, his eyes wide, not quite believing what he’s hearing.  _How dare he speak to her in such an awful manner?_ He thinks, irritation plastered all over his face. “What are you insinuating, brother? That she  _escaped_  from her activities?” The words come out of Illidan’s mouth without consideration, a deep scowl creasing his dark-skinned forehead. “That is rather rude of you.”

The woman in front of them gapes silently. “I… I only needed to get some air,” Mylenne tries to explain; although her voice starts to falter, shifting and weakening as well as the pale aura that surrounds her skin—that bluish energy which only Illidan could see—making her fidget uncomfortably in her spot. “I was not trying to go anywhere...”

“And I am sure that you had good reasons for doing so,” Illidan says in her defense, directing a comforting smile in Mylenne’s direction. “Please, pay no mind for my brother’s _unfortunate_ choice of words.”

“Illidan, what—“ Malfurion starts, glaring at him, open-mouthed and looking like if he had been slapped in the face. However, after the brothers share a look, he reconsiders his words, massaging his temple and adding, “I apologize, Sister. It was not my intention to scold you. I am not in my best of moods… but you are not at fault, and for that I am sorry.”

The kaldorei in front of them blinks a couple of times, but she is fast in regaining her composure. “It is all right. Must probably be the weather,” Mylenne says with a wave of her hand, “This storm is unsettling me as well.”

The woman and Malfurion glance at the sky, their silver gazes apparently searching for the moon hidden behind the clouds and beyond the cerulean trees. But, while Illidan attempts to do the same, he finds himself unable to look away from Mylenne’s bright silver orbs.

And it’s only for a mere second, but within that instant—and with what was left of the pale moonlight reflecting in her eyes—Illidan could observe how the woman’s silver eyes start to gleam, brimming with unshed tears.

His heart clenches inside his chest at the sight.  _How could someone so beautiful be in so much pain?_ Then again, it took another blink—and this time, a hard swallow of her throat—for the woman to recover, returning to that odd protective shell she seemingly had created for herself, her features shifting into a poise of self-control.

When their eyes met once more, Illidan’s brain fills itself with hundreds of questions for her but, somehow, he never voices them. “This surely must be a hard night for meditation.” He says instead, opting for nonchalance.

If Mylenne notices his slight hesitation for words, he would not be sure, for her face revealed nothing to him. “I guess so,” The woman nods in agreement. “Or maybe it could be because I am not that good at communing with the Goddess as my fellow Sisters…”

His brother’s green brows crease into a frown at her statement, seemingly speechless. However, Illidan knows better of turning crisis into opportunity and climbs another step, closing his distance with the woman. “You should not underestimate yourself, Mylenne, for I am sure you are capable of that and much more.” He states, his voice giving no room for objections.

Something warm blooms inside Illidan’s chest when, for the first time on that stormy night, a shy smile rises to her lilac lips. “Thank you,” Mylenne says, a wild blush darkening her lavender cheeks, “But I think you are only being too kind.”

He returns her smile with a playful smirk of his own, feeling proud of accomplishing his task of reassuring her. His golden eyes gleam in satisfaction at the sight of the blushing woman; there were very few things more pleasurable for Illidan Stormrage than making a female blush.

But probably he doesn’t realize how much time he had taken by only staring at her, for then Mylenne starts to fidget, seemingly avoiding his gaze. “Though, uhm, were you looking for someone? I should return to the Temple anyway, so I can call them for you… if that is what you need me for, of course.”

The single word comes out of Illidan’s mouth without him thinking about it. “Tyrande.”  

But one of his long pointy ears twitch when Illidan hears his brother—now placed a couple of meters behind him—echoing the very same name of their friend. His teeth clench behind his mouth, barely containing his irritation from returning with full force, his previous moment with Mylenne long forgotten.

 _Why does he always seem to think that people only wants to talk with him? Goddess, does he not see that I am standing_ right here _? That I am not_ invisible _?_

“Well,  _he is_ ,” Illidan growls, looking behind his shoulder and to Malfurion, his golden orbs full of annoyance.  _Oh, Mother Moon, please grant me patience, for if I get to hear one more thing about my brother and Tyrande, I swear I will—_

His thoughts are cut short when the sound of his name reaches his ears. “And you, Illidan?” Mylenne asks in a curious tone, and he could not do anything else but to return his attention to her, a cobalt brow lifting in surprise. “I mean, I… I am sorry. I did not mean to pry…”

He’s left speechless, if only for a moment, when the moonlight returns once more from behind the dark clouds, its silver-white rays focusing on the violet-haired female in front of him.

With the soft light of the moon caressing his shoulders and the back of his head—like the ever so soothing stroke of a mother—Illidan knows that the Goddess is wise and merciful with him, encouraging him to only focus on Mylenne, feeling how the growing tension on his muscles slowly start to disappear and his mind clears from any distressed thoughts.

After glancing at the dark sky and sending silent thanks to Elune, he decides to leave his annoying issues with his brother for another moment, well-guarded on the back of his conscience.

“And you are not prying,” Illidan answers, a charming smile creeping its way through his dark lips, “for I was actually looking forward to speaking with  _you_.”

He feels more than sees how the green-haired male behind him crosses his arms over his chest, pretty much aware that he is lying. “Brother?” Malfurion inquires with a hint of suspicion in his voice.

But, this time, Illidan completely ignores his own brother, climbing another step and getting closer to the female kaldorei, who is now looking at him with silver eyes frowning in question. “Do you have a moment to spare?” He asks Mylenne, his voice nothing but a whisper, but loud enough for only her to hear.  

Her blushing deepens, darkening her nimble neck and cheeks, and—thanks to their closeness—he sees how her lavender skin prickles and a shiver runs through her when the cold wind strokes it.

Ever the one to take advantage when having the chance, his fingers take hold of the silver cloak resting upon the woman’s back, moving the delicate silk over her bare shoulders to cover her from the storm, taking precious care of not touching her skin. “My brother already knows where to look for Tyrande.” Illidan insists when he sees Mylenne glancing over his shoulder.

He sees her hesitation, but instead of feeling offended, her inhibition only makes him smile more, his dark-skinned face the perfect picture of pure, unadulterated amusement.

“Uhm, alright…” She accepts with a hint of doubt in her voice.

Doubtful or not, Illidan feels more than pleased, moving elegantly to the side and allowing her to walk down the stairs. Then, he follows her steps with a grin plastered all over his face, never looking back and to the stunned green-haired male now left alone and behind them.

_Maybe this will help him to see reason and understand how it really feels to be left apart._

* * *

Any kaldorei who knew anything about Illidan Stormrage would admit that he was a gentleman through and through, mostly when it came to dealing with females.

That is the main reason of why, on their way down, the cobalt-haired man takes his eyes away from the woman he’s following and glances to their surroundings, attempting to find a decent place for them to sit. 

Considering that probably the bottom of the stairs could do well for her—and remembering the place where he saw her for the first time—he starts to unlatch his crimson cloak with intentions of using the silk to cover his chosen spot.

But surprise strikes him when the kaldorei female never follows him, making her way out of the Temple and crossing to the other side of the street instead. His golden eyes lock on her figure, dark brows frowning when the woman decides to sit over the cerulean grass, seemingly uncaring of her delicate robes getting dirty.

A low chuckle escapes Illidan’s lips, holding his cloak in one arm and walking to her side. “This will be the second time I find you preferring to be on the bare floor rather than somewhere more comfortable.”

Mylenne only shrugs in response, adjusting her skirts and allowing her crossed legs to brush on the grass. “Well, I do find the grass more comfortable than the cold tiles of those _wretched_ stairs…”

The male sits beside her, leaning on his elbows and finding that he really likes that newfound confidence on her. “Why I do get the feeling that you do not really like this place?” Illidan asks, considering that it is a good moment for questions.

“Oh, and you do?” The woman wonders with a lift of a violet eyebrow. “I must confess that I never thought of you for a follower of Elune.”

“I would lie if I said so.” He admits with a low snort but then tilts his head at her. “But you are avoiding my questions… again.”

She never turned her eyes to him; instead, her head lolls back, fluttering her eyes close and basking in the pale moonlight caressing her pale cheeks. “Then maybe you should start with why you wanted to speak with me in the first place.” Mylenne retorts, this time not looking intimidated with his staring, relaxing even further in her spot.

“Are you going to stop evading me if I just tell you so?” Illidan then says, not yet deciding about conceding, preferring to just look at her and her wonderful skin, glowing ever so slightly with the reflection of the moonlight on her.

A playful smirk rises to one corner of her lilac lips. “Maybe…”

He could not help but to chuckle in return. “Oh, now you are teasing me.” He says, taking a hand to his bare chest in mock offense, although the amused smile on his dark lips expresses otherwise. “All right, two can play this game. How about this? You ask me what you want to know— and refrain from lying, for I will know— and then I ask you something in return…”

Even Illidan is not aware of why he seems so interested in knowing more about the woman beside him, but when she hums in response—clearly accepting his offer—he leans to the side, supporting his body with one elbow and facing Mylenne, all his attention focusing on her.

This time, her lips frown in thought and a couple of seconds go by in complete silence. “Why you lied about you not looking for priestess Tyrande?” She asks then, her voice genuinely curious. “I am not oblivious to the way you looked at your brother when he mentioned her name as well, but I did not understand why you lied.”

“I did not!” Illidan exclaims, although both are aware of how his voice faltered, if only for a second.

Her bright silver eyes turn to look at him. “Am I the only one who has to refrain from lying?”

Regardless of her accusations, her gaze did not seem to judge him, making the male sigh in relief. “Well, to be honest, that was the worst question for you to ask in the first place,” Illidan admits with a grunt.

But the female kaldorei remains silent and keeps her gaze on him, her features neutral, yet persistent, patiently waiting for his response.

“Okay, you win.” He concedes, a small part of him starting to regret the silly game he had planned, noticing how the tables are turned on him at that moment.

Figuring that honesty was the only answer, Illidan takes a deep breath and finally confesses, “Both my brother and I were looking for Tyrande. We had a talk about the three of us going together to the Moon Festival three months ago, but I recently found out that,  _apparently_ , they were not really planning on me to join them...”

_… And apparently, I was very stupid for thinking so. And it seems that I still am. Oh, Goddess! Now I surely look like a fool, and nothing less than in front of the female that I’m trying to—_

“Mmh, I see,” Mylenne’s feminine voice takes him out of his reverie, making him tilt his head at her in seeming curiosity; for her tone was not one of pity or shame for him. Instead—and to his surprise—she sounded like if she were struggling to not look offended.

Illidan asks her what she is thinking about, lightly brushing her thigh with his own when she never answers, too deep into her thoughts. The movement startles her, making the woman fidget and move away from him in an attempt to keep some distance.

He isn’t really sure what he had said to make her react in that way to him, but it was more hurtful than offensive. However, he was not going to turn down the only chance he had to talk with that woman, and so he insisted again. “I believe that it is my turn for a question.”

She gives him a curt nod—as if she didn’t have another choice—but Illidan pretends to not have noticed that. “What is on your mind?” He inquires once more, his baritone voice soft but still showing his concern.

“I do not believe you want to know.” Mylenne snarls, her voice tight against her now clenched teeth, crossing her arms over her chest defensively and, unconsciously, confirming his suspicions.  _She is definitely offended._

“Have I said something wrong?” His hand moves to one of her arms but stopped midair, figuring out that touching her is not the best idea. “I am sorry, I thought… I thought that you deserved an honest answer.”

The female did not look at him, instead focusing her gaze on one of the silver bracelets that adorned his wrist. “And I thought that your invitation was because you were looking for my company. Apparently, it  _only_  was because you do not have a partner to attend to in the first place.”

Illidan blinks in surprise with her response, her harsh tone feeling like a straight punch on his face. “What?” He mutters, clearing his throat when his voice goes out too weak for his liking. “By Elune… What could I possibly have said to make you think that?”

“It was not because of what you said, but what you  _do_.” Mylenne continues, this time facing him, violet eyebrows down into a hard frown. “You obviously care about priestess Tyrande so, why did you not insist on going with her and your brother? Why do you wish to go with  _me_ —of all women—instead of them, or… Goddess, why did you ask me and not Sylenna?”

The male feels shocked with her sudden upsetting, leaving him only able to stare at her, speechless, and watching how the magical aura surrounding her body starts to flare, wild purplish-blue waves glowing on her pale and soft skin.

 _Sylenna?_  Illidan mouths, thinking about that mentioned woman for the first time on that stormy night, returning Mylenne’s hard frown with one of his own. He could guess why Mylenne kept reminding him of that woman—he is also aware that the female had her eyes fixed on him on every encounter they had—but what he could not guess is Mylenne’s insistence on her; much less when he had not returned any interest.

But his thoughts drifted away when his heart starts to pound wildly behind his ribs, his whole body reacting to the arcane energy that floats in front of his eyes, coming down over him in a soft, barely visible mist. The acrid tang of pure unadulterated magic reaches his nose, making his mouth go dry and tensing his muscles.

It is the most  _desirable_  scent in the world.

And that is probably why he reaches out and dares to touch her bare wrist for the first time on that night, in a desperate rush to soothe her. “ _Mylenne_ ,” He starts, his voice rasped and dry, “Hey, calm down. First, allow me to explain.”

“I  _am_  calm. Why would you think—” But her speech is cut short when a tingle starts to expand through both their arms, making her gasp slightly.

This time he did not allow her to flinch away, enclosing his fingers on her wrist and leaning closer to her, only taking a moment to enjoy the wonderful sensation of her warm skin and the feeling of her magic below his fingers. “Mylenne,” He repeats her name once more, savoring the sound of her name on his lips, “Inviting you was the best idea I had in  _decades_.”

Then, when her lilac lips part, ready to retort something at him, it was her who is left speechless, her bright silver orbs meeting her golden ones and blinking in astonishment.

Taking that as a good sign, the male shifts in an attempt to get closer to her, taking precious care to not startle her somehow. “I am oblivious as of why do you think so low of yourself,” He continues, caressing her wrist with the tip of his thumb, “But, to be honest, I am more confused about how it seems that no man before me invited you in the first place. One would think that a woman as beautiful as you could get anything she wants… or  _anyone_  she wants.”

Her blush returns once more, strong enough to darken her neck and cheeks and to calm the intense flaring of her energies, the purplish-blue glowing of her skin slowly starting to dissipate and returning to their natural color and state. “Now you are the one teasing me,” Mylenne answers, a shy smile making its way through her lips.

“I am not being a tease, for I meant every word I said.” Illidan insists, feeling how his confidence returned to his body, the smile that the woman directs at him—and  _only to him_ —doing nothing but bolstering him. “Here, allow me to give you something.”

Supporting his body with one elbow, the male kaldorei captures her hand in both of his, moving her wrist in the most delicate way and placing her palm upwards.

Fluttering his eyes close, he forces his mind to focus and moves her captured hand close to his mouth, whispering a spell into it. “ _Alor’el ana._ ”

He never could be sure if the sudden gasp coming from the female’s lips is a reaction to what is left in her palm or for his breath so close to her skin, but he smiles in satisfaction nonetheless, savoring the scent of her skin only for a moment before opening his eyes.

A warm, delighted feeling blossom inside Illidan’s chest; right in that exact second when he allows her to open her palm and observe the translucent dusk lily he had placed. Its petals start to glow when the moonlight touches it, getting brighter within each second passing.

It is a beautiful flower, but not as much as the woman carefully holding it with her pale, delicate hands, cocooning it like the most precious treasure. And, in that moment, nothing is more beautiful as the dusk lily’s reflection on her face, the bright glow of its petals adorning and caressing the violet markings on her cheeks.

In that moment, his previous struggles are erased from Illidan’s mind. His irritation and frustration for his brother’s actions, his insecurities and doubts from what Mylenne—or  _anyone_ , but mostly her—could think of him, his nightly exasperated discussions with his superiors; nothing of that remained, except the sight of the woman in front of him.

_A woman with a beauty that could only be compared with the Goddess herself._

“Thank you. It is gorgeous.” The woman whispers, but her voice is so low that he almost could not hear it, the ever so slight movement of her lips being the only sign for Illidan that she’s talking.   

“ _Sael’ah_ ,” The cobalt-haired male says in return, his grin widening in pure delight, noticing how entranced she is with the flower cradled in her hands, “But I should remark that its beauty cannot be compared with its owner.”

“Forgive me if I believe you say the very same thing to any woman that crosses your way,” Mylenne confesses, her silver eyes rolling and her voice attempting to dismiss his praise, although the intense darkening of her cheeks expresses the opposite.

If it were someone else, Illidan is sure that he would bark something in reply—probably something harsh in an attempt to defend his modesty—but there was something about that woman’s constant refusal to his compliments that only incited him to keep trying.

That is the main reason of why the male insists and says, “Oh, but I am sure that nobody ever told you how  _beautiful_  you look when you blush.”

When her silver eyes find his and sharp canines appear to bite her lower lip—making a massive effort to collect herself and somehow hide her embarrassment—Illidan finds the answer to his suspicions, a smug smirk making its way to his dark lips.

“Alright, you win.” Mylenne concedes with a nervous chuckle, unable to keep looking at him. But it is a female voice who called her name in the distance what takes her out of her reverie, making her crane her neck in the Temple’s direction. “… And that is my cue to leave.”

Fidgeting in her spot and taking precious care of the magical flower still cradled in one of her hands, the woman adjusts her skirts and moved to get up from her spot on the cerulean grass. However, Illidan is faster than her, getting on his feet in seconds, elegantly outstretching a hand to her.

“Mylenne,” He attempts to recall for her attention, slightly tightening his hold on her small, nimble hand when she takes it, “The reason of why I wanted to speak with you was to insist on my offer. If you ever decide to accept and join me, I will be waiting for you on the Main Square, outside the Stronghold.”

Once she is on her feet, she cradles her dusk lily close to her chest, as if trying to protect it from the weather. Although for Illidan’s relief—and pleasure—didn’t let go of his hand. “Then maybe I should advise you against it. I already  _have_  a partner.” The woman answers, pointing him to a silver-haired woman—apparently, the woman who was previously calling for her—with a tilt of her head. “But I will consider it.”

“That sounds better than another plain refusal…” He admits with a shrug, trying to look nonchalant. However, deep down, he is too delighted with the feeling of the woman’s lavender hand joined with his, and too entranced with its warmth to be thinking of something else.

Throwing his crimson cloak over his free arm, the two kaldorei make their return to the Temple in silence, the male doing his best to savor his last moments with the violet-haired woman beside him.

But then, when another male with bright green hair appears on the top of the marble stairs, the kaldorei holding his hand stops in her tracks. “Oh, and Illidan,” Mylenne starts, kindly pushing him to face her, “I do not intend to meddle in your issues with your brother but… I think you are looking too much into it.”

“What?” He blinks, feeling confused with the sudden change of their previous conversation. “What do you mean?”

“Well, first of all, you never heard this from me, but,” A playful smirk creeps its way to Mylenne’s lilac lips as she whispers, only for him to hear, “Rumor has it that Malfurion is known to be quite the  _boring_  twin in the Stormrage family. At least, that is what I have heard…”

If the woman was attempting to reassure him in some way, she definitely succeeded in doing so. “Really?” One of his cobalt brows perks up in interest. “Now I wonder what those rumors say about the other twin.”

Despite the woman now letting go of his hand, the warmth of her presence didn’t abandon him. Her last comment bolstered his mood even more so, something that the male could not believe it possible due to the awful night and week he has been enduring.

But what he could not really believe is his sudden  _luck_  for the turn of events on that stormy night; nor did he believe himself worthy of the beautiful violet-haired woman now standing on her tiptoes and supporting her weight on one of his arms, closing her distance to him once more.

“Perhaps you will get some answers within the next week…  _if_  we get to meet at the Festival.” Mylenne whispers close to his face, her shyness and embarrassment apparently forgotten at that moment.

When she kisses him on his cheek—only a small, quick peck, an ever so small brush of her lips on his skin—Illidan feels it like a reward. And, way deep down, he wants to also believe it as a promise.

But right on that moment, as he watches the woman go and join her friend on the marble stairs of the Temple of Elune, the last of Illidan Stormrage’s thoughts goes to the Mother Moon and her odd—but still subtle—ways of interfering with his life.

_I should probably need to pray and thank the Goddess more often._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is **marked for rewriting**. I'll announce in the notes when this takes effect.


	6. Wave of Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold sweat gather between his thick cobalt brows and the male wipes his head with a forearm, his mouth contorting in a disgusted sneer. When his golden eyes flutter close, his mind floods with memories of a woman he once thought of his friend, with her long navy hair waving in the air, her pale skin kissed by the moonlight.
> 
> With the picture of her so clear in his head, his whole body flares wildly once more, his claws burying in his palms, attempting to draw some blood out of him and, maybe, some of that intense pain he feels crawling inside his chest, threatening to tear him apart. 
> 
> Because now he is conscious that it’s only in his thoughts and dreams when Tyrande smiles at him, and _only him_. And because now he’s aware that he will never be the one who makes her heart race as she did with him, for more than millennia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing the Highborne sorcerer Syrana Starweave and her sister (!!!), Shalasyr! Aaaaand one of my best sketches of Syrana! 
> 
> Special thanks to the ones rooting for this story. Hope you enjoy this one :D

** Darnassian: **

**Rath-domaas:** Arcane spell.

**Val’sharah:** The name of a small village; the place where Malfurion and Illidan Stormrage were born.

**Highborne:** Kaldorei of noble birth.

* * *

** Stormrage **

**One week later.**

His way home is more relaxing than Illidan would have expected at first, with the Moon already resting and allowing the pale orange rays coming from the sunrise to illuminate his path.

The sun’s light doesn’t feel as soothing and warming on his dark skin as the reflection of Elune upon them at night time, but the male welcomes the feeling anyway, basking in the landscape that adorned his way home.

With the sun rising over the horizon, the grass and cerulean trees that decorate the outskirts of Suramar City began to shift into shades of bright green, dark brown trunks from oak trees turning almost beige within each minute passing. It was the very nature announcing the impending coming of the day and, therefore, the resting time for the kaldorei population.

However, with one of the sun’s rays almost blinding him, he started to be aware that—and probably after two thousand and five hundred years of growing accustomed to the scenery—those days, he wasn’t admiring the view of the green forest the way he used to, back in the day. But his causes didn’t actually relate to his preferences of color or his lack of attachment to the silent forest and nature that surrounded the streets of his home.

It was more because, as of lately, the gentle forest and its bright green leaves only remind him of his brother.

And how _ironic_ was the forest to him when, at night time, right on his way out and to the Stronghold, those very same oak trees and its cerulean leaves did nothing but remind him of Tyrande Whisperwind.

A rough grunt takes its way out of Illidan’s lips at the thought, sharply taking his eyes away from the landscape, the sound of his own voice disturbing the silent streets and quieting the whispers of the morning wind.

Although, way down on the depths of his conscience, the male realizes that it’s more of a sick joke that the forest, _the very damned forest_ , is the one to force him to understand the reality of his distress, instead of the Moon and wise Goddess they revered and worshiped every night. 

Something twists and clenches inside of his chest with the sudden revelation, his arcane energies going out of control and making his dark skin glow, purplish-blue magic flaring wildly in an attempt to escape from its prison inside his body.

The small hairs on his body rise up as if electrified by his own magic, making him quicken his steps and walk directly to the backyard of his house.

Jumping over the fence with practiced ease, he goes straight to the homemade wooden training dummy—strategically placed far away from the back door—and allows his magic to take control of him, his fists glowing in bright purple as he places a punch over its midsection.

The dummy bounces uncontrollably with the force of his punch, but a single blow isn’t enough to soothe Illidan’s anger, and he doesn’t wait for the dummy to stop moving to hit it again. And again, and again.

_I have been so stupid_. A hard punch. _So blind to what was in front of my eyes._ An arcane lash. _All this time making such a fool of myself_. Another arcane lash. 

Enraged tears prickle his golden eyes but he doesn’t let them out, preferring to focus on destroying his homemade dummy with his bare fists. He doesn’t mind about the noise or disturbing his neighbors and—way deep down on his conscience—Illidan couldn’t help but _hope_ that his brother may be listening to him. After all, only a cobbled street and a couple of trees are between his place and Malfurion’s home. 

Hours go through, with the male unleashing all his frustration onto the homemade piece of cotton, wool, and wood that adorns his backyard, letting out years and years of doubts and suspicions through each hit. But even when he tries with all his might, his knuckles don’t bleed and not a single tear falls from his eyes.

Cold sweat gather between his thick cobalt brows and the male wipes his head with a forearm, his mouth contorting in a disgusted sneer. When his golden eyes flutter close, his mind floods with memories of a woman he once thought of his friend, with her long navy hair waving in the air, her pale skin kissed by the moonlight.

With the picture of her so clear in his head, his whole body flares wildly once more, his claws burying in his palms, attempting to draw some blood out of him and, maybe, some of that intense pain he feels crawling inside his chest, threatening to tear him apart. 

Because now he is conscious that it’s only in his thoughts and dreams when Tyrande smiles at him, and _only him_. And because now he’s aware that he will never be the one who makes her heart race as she did with him, for more than millennia.

And Illidan doesn’t know in which thing he had been foolish enough; for thinking that he would have won her heart if he worked hard for it, or for falling in love with a kaldorei who always had her eyes set on his brother.

It is when his eyes drift open again that the picture of a bright green mane flashes though his golden orbs. And his anguish and anger make their way out through his throat while he draws a sharp arc in the air with a fist. “ _Rath-domaas_!” Illidan roars, chopping off the wooden head of his homemade dummy with the force of his spell.

When the head rolls over the grass the kaldorei finally stays still, his magic drained and receding within the confines of his body once more. But, no matter how much he blinks, he finds himself unable to tear his gaze apart from his destroyed dummy.

_We were wrong on leaving Val’sharah_ , he thinks, staring at the headless dummy that—if only for a moment—he imagined to be his green-haired brother. _We should have stayed there, in our small house, spending the rest of our lives hunting and climbing up the oak trees._

His limbs feel heavy and Illidan drops to the floor, uncaring of his expensive robes, barely making an effort of untying his long ponytail. _But I am the only one to blame_. _If I would not have insisted on coming here, our lives would have been so different. We would be following your lifestyle, brother, probably living a better life that the one I had planned for my own…_

With the sunlight caressing his battered knuckles, his mind drifts to the memories of his childhood on Val’sharah, the small village where they were born and grew up. It was a quiet village, the perfect place for one to be surrounded by nature and spend their nights only listening to the soothing whispers of the wind, or the gentle streams of the rivers.

His cobalt mane gets tangled and messy when the midday wind rises up from behind the clouds to play with it. _I should have listened, should have prayed to the Goddess for guidance, and followed the advice of the Moon Priestess. We would have… we would be having…_

But it is when the bright sun hides behind the clouds that a voice whispers in his ear; a female voice, but not from the one that haunts his memories and dreams. This one is soothing and gentle, just as comforting as the moonlight’s warm caress on his skin at night.

_“Illidan...”_ The voice calls for him and the kaldorei flutters his eyes close, marveling at the sound of his own name coming from that beautiful voice of hers. “ _…_ _Malfurion is known to be quite the_ boring _twin in the Stormrage family._ _”_

A tired sigh escapes from the male’s dark lips at the reminder, but he allows his mind to recreate the picture of her playful smirk. “ _You are looking too much into it._ ” The voice insists, her silver gaze never wavering.

The memory of the violet-haired woman washes over him like cleansing water, his heart missing a beat when he remembers the ghost touch of her lilac lips on his cheek, those warm, delicate lips which, only a week ago, smiled at him _and only him._

And oh, he’s not afraid to admit it: He would do a lot to only get the chance to see that smile of hers once more.

When he opens his eyes the glimpse of the bright green mane of his brother is no more, the image fading to show him the results of his unleashed frustration. And there’s no kaldorei before him, only a headless, wasted and destroyed training dummy.

_“You are looking too much into it_ ,” The ghost of Mylenne repeats to him. Illidan’s mind takes refuge in her soothing voice, sheltering his battered heart with the warmth of her memory, savoring everything he can before she also takes her leave, disappearing into the depths of his conscience.

When what’s left of his energy returns to his body, the male abandons the garden, using the backdoor to get into his house and heading to a small wooden cabinet conveniently placed under the rounded window of his living room.

After removing some strands of his long cobalt hair out of his face, he takes a couple of small candles from one of the drawers, carefully placing it close to a silver statue of the Goddess Elune which adorns the top of his furniture; another of the meaningless gifts that Tyrande has given to him.

With a click of his fingers, the candles ignite. This time, it takes only a low snort to keep his resentment well-guarded in the back of his mind, his thoughts preferring to focus on things that matter.

On things that don't make him feel weak and vulnerable.

The image of a violet-haired kaldorei flickers to life before his eyes with the fire’s reflection and Illidan gets on his knees, joining his palms and savoring the perfect picture of the woman in his mind, so beautiful, almost godlike, with the moonlight caressing her pale lavender skin.

“Mother Moon, I beg you, hear my plea…” Illidan starts to pray for the very first time in five hundred years, with the flames of the candles and the woman’s shy smile over him inside his mind as his witnesses.

* * *

Only a few hours are left before the beginning of the Moon Festival, and while Illidan is quite aware of that, he also finds himself unable to stop his nightly training.

It’s a routine, a meaningless activity, to be—once more—punching another training dummy to dust, and that is the main reason of why he spends the entirety of his work hours on the practicing yard, with his shadow as his only companion.

And it’s much better to focus on damaging his knuckles until they bleed than to think in his already damaged heart.

Regardless of his foul mood, a part of him is conscious that there are always prying eyes around the Stronghold, so he can’t help with the small satisfaction he gets at showing off his evident talents for sorcery to whoever could be watching him.

It’s a lesser reward, to allow his self-pride to fill his chest and numb his senses, but in that moment, it’s the only thing he can take to find some shelter against the troubled feelings that had been haunting him for so long ago.

The other part of him—the emotional one, the very intangible part that makes him who he really is—also knows that if he doesn’t get to wear his mask of arrogance and overconfidence, he will probably lose everything he had been working so hard to achieve.

And if he doesn’t keep punching that shielded dummy, he will probably explode before getting out some of the stress he’s been holding.

He’s not aware of the hour, but the Moon is close to reaching her highest peak when one of his fellow trainees decides to give him some company. However, Illidan doesn’t falter on his punches when the newcomer approaches him, their steps short yet secure over the dirt floor they walk upon.

The cobalt-haired man easily unleashes a powerful arcane spell with the tip of his fingertips, not bothering to look behind his shoulder and glance at the newcomer. _Might as well let them watch the show._

And then, one of his long pointy ears twitches when he recognizes the female voice even without seeing her face. “Do you want me to place a face on that dummy, Stormrage?” The female says, pure amusement decorating her tones. “That should work as an excuse for Latosius when you get to accomplish your task of destroying his favorite toys…”

A snort takes way through his lips. “And you should know better that Latosius prefers to practice with those ones,” Illidan remarks, pointing in the direction of a pair of less shielded training dummies with a nod of his head. And while he’s not in the mood for teasing, he can’t help with dropping his voice low, and add, “ _Lady_ Syrana.”

He feels more than sees how the female kaldorei crosses her arms over her chest behind him. “You are not letting that one down, are you?” Syrana Starweave complaints, half annoyed and half amused.

“Never,” Illidan admits, a satisfied smirk running through his lips for the first time in the night. After feeling convinced that her company would distract him enough, he turns around and faces the woman, imitating her posture and crossing his muscled arms over his bare chest. “Well, you needed me for something or just wanted my pleasurable company?”

“Oh, and here I thought that _I_ was doing you the favor of giving you some company. You wound me, Lid.” Syrana whines, placing a hand over her chest in mock hurt.

“I live to serve.” The male answers, bowing down in an exaggerated gesture, if only to keep teasing the woman in front of him—and in attempts to get some payback for the use of that awful nickname of his.

He gets rewarded with a snort and a roll of her golden eyes, a low chuckle escaping his lips at the sight. “I thought you were on your way to the Festival. Have you lost sight of Lothrius _again_?” Illidan banters, leaning his back on the dummy he was punching only moments ago.

“That’s the main reason of why I am here for: Loth is already closing the gates,” Syrana informs him, her golden eyes pointing in the direction of the front gates of the Stronghold.

Her comment earns a deep frown from the male’s thick cobalt eyebrows, his smug smirk disappearing from his face in sudden surprise. Realization starts to dawn on him when his golden eyes travel to the sky, noticing the bright Moon almost reaching its peak.

“Guess that I have lost track of time,” Illidan murmurs to the sky, his teasing attitude suddenly forgotten.

With the moonlight washing over his face, a sharp tang of anxiety starts to run over his body, the small hairs of his body rising up and blood rushing faster through his veins. “Thanks for letting me know, Syra.” It’s the only thing Illidan could voice, his mind already drifting away with the amount of things he needs to get done before heading out the Stronghold.

He wants to punch himself for getting distracted, mostly for doing so on that particular night he had been waiting for over a month. _So much for praying for guidance_ , Illidan thinks to himself, trying to focus on what he must get done before leaving the Stronghold. _I can only hope that she is not already waiting for me._

It’s only when he gets moving that the male gets aware of his company, now joining him on his way out of the practicing yard. “My pleasure, handsome,” Syrana says, a knowing smirk plastered on her dark lips. “Now go, change into something more respectable,” She adds, lightly pushing him to one of the doors that lead to the halls of the building. “You certainly do not want your partner to be shocked at seeing you with those cheap training clothes, would you?”

The male obliges, although he can’t help but look behind his shoulder, a cobalt brow rising in interest. “And why do you seem to believe that I have a partner, anyways?”

That gets a laugh from the female sorcerer. “Because I can smell your nervousness from here, dear Lid,” She explains as if it’s obvious, adjusting her silver hood and turning her back on him. “Now, go ahead, I will be waiting for you on the plaza. I cannot _wait_ to hear about her.”

* * *

It’s close to midnight when the Stormrage sorcerer finally heads for the main plaza. With his hard chin lifted up and his long, famous ponytail well-adjusted on the back of his head, Illidan shifts into his confident façade once more, taking his leave from the Moon Guard Stronghold with elegant strides.

His lips contort into a sly smirk when he notices more than a couple of heads turning to him in his way to the plaza, but that doesn’t stop him from his current destination, already recognizing the navy-haired woman waiting for him in one of the street’s stone benches.

Syrana whistles in approval as he approaches her seat. “Looking good, Stormrage.” The female sorcerer smiles, ogling him shamelessly and moving to one corner of the bench.

A low chuckle escapes the male’s lips while he takes the offered seat, not really falling for her charm. “Glad to know that I made an impression, _milady_.” He jests, relaxing in his spot and stretching his bare arms over the back of the bench.

“You _always_ do. And don’t act like you are not aware of it.” The woman says with a knowing stare, eliciting another chuckle out of him. “So, are you going to tell me about the lucky one?”

Illidan couldn’t figure the female sorcerer’s sudden interest in his partner, even more so when she was quite known for not meddling in his business—one of the main reasons of why the male was fond of her. “Why should I?” He has to ask, glancing at her through the corner of his eye. “In any case, it’s not like you know her: Unlike you, she is not a Highborne.”

But Syrana doesn’t back up. In any case, her smile widens as she leans closer to him, lowering her voice for only Illidan to hear it. “Mmh, so… she’s a lowborn and—surprisingly—not your favorite priestess. Now I am more curious than ever.”

Her seductive voice provokes a tickle in one of his sensitive ears, the sensation slowly expanding through the side of his neck and shoulders at her proximity. Still, Illidan knows better than to fall into her trap; very much so when he had used those very same tactics against her to get what he wanted, many years ago.

But despite it all, his ears don’t miss the mention of Tyrande. “ _Syra_ …” He warns his friend with his lips curling into a sneer. “Please refrain from ruining my good mood.”

“Alright, alright!” Syrana concedes with a tired sigh. “But I will once you stop calling me ‘Lady’. You know that I hate to be called by my status.” She adds with a pout of her dark lips.

With that comment, the male cranes his neck and faces her, a cobalt brow rising up. “That never stopped you from using it to your advantage.” Illidan reminds her with a sly smirk.

A smirk that the woman quickly returns to him. “Just as you take advantage of your handsomeness, I should remark.” She adds, leaning her side in one of his bare arms.

As the female sorcerer starts to toy with some cobalt strands of his hair—lazily curling it over her nimble fingers—Illidan takes a moment to stare at her and her ministrations, marveling at how relaxed and comfortable they both are with the other, even with their closeness and their seemingly innocent touches on the other’s skin.

Illidan knows that a good part of it comes with their familiarity and knowledge of each other’s bodies; and his mind can’t help but drift away to the past, to those nights when Syrana Starweave wasn’t one of his fellow sorcerer initiates but, instead, one of his bed partners.

The cobalt-haired male contains a laugh from escaping his lips at remembering Malfurion’s comments on her, more than three decades ago; his mind picturing Syrana’s shocked face when his brother once suggested to them the idea of becoming mates. _Your brother seems to be completely crazy, Lid. Please, spare me from meeting him again_ , his then lover had said to him that early morning, curled up next to him in his bed, half of her face hidden in the crook of his arm.

Regardless, he would be lying to himself about not considering the idea of claiming Syrana as his lifemate, for they always got along wonderfully well, both in and out of his bed. But, unfortunately—and despite their obvious physical attraction—they were always aware that they could never get past their meaningless relationship, only created with the intentions of relieving stress together and helping each other on their initiation into the Moon Guard order.

For their hearts always belonged to someone else; hers to Lothrius Mooncaller and his, to Tyrande Whisperwind. And despite that times have changed for Illidan—as for slowly taking his infatuation with Tyrande with it—he still knows that Syrana’s feelings remain to be the same.

That’s probably why he doesn’t consider his relationship with Syrana as another of his many failures: They were never meant to be more than bed partners in the past and good friends in the present. And Illidan knows better to accept some things as they are.

A small brush of her nimble fingers over his arm is what takes the male out of his reverie. “Now, how about you indulge me and tell me about this mysterious woman. Is she another priestess?” Syrana asks, still toying with his hair.

The thought of the violet-haired kaldorei he is now waiting provokes a small smile over his lips. “Well, not yet. She seems to be only an initiate…” He explains, taking his hand away from his friend’s bare knee and glancing at the street before him.

“An initiate?” Syrana’s ministrations on his hair stop, if only for a moment. “Illidan, you are not _daring_ to court my _sister_ , are you?”

At her comment, the male returns his gaze to her, wide-eyed. “Shalasyr? When did she come to the city?” He wonders, surprised for the late news. “I have not seen her for decades.”

“Oh, she only came a month ago. And here I thought that you had seen her by now, given that you’re a recurrent visitor of the Temple of Elune…” The woman explains, half-mocking at his usual activities.

For the next hour, they engage in a conversation about Shalasyr Starweave and her initiation on the Sisterhood, something rather surprising for both of them considering that the mentioned woman never was much of a devoted to the Goddess. Although Illidan could never guess with noble people as the Highborne, always so free to choose their lifestyle as they please.

With the case of Shalasyr, the male wonders once more why it is that some of the Highborne choose to live a humble life—a life apart from their wealth and their easy access to magic—instead of embracing their nobility and, therefore, their inherent positions of power given by their heritage.

It was odd for Illidan, to say the least, for one to consider aspiring to something lower instead of higher on the kaldorei society. His own efforts of proving himself to the officers of the Moon Guard and almost a decade spent by only trying to gain his worthy place inside the order—and, with enough luck, a place among the Highborne—can’t be anything but _expected_ for a lowborn like him.

And he can’t help but remember his conversation with Mylenne, his mind drifting to that night when she stumbled with Latosius, after Illidan had caught her eyes on him. He was not that far away from his Officer to not hear him insulting the woman, calling her a lowborn before taking his leave.

But what he couldn’t forget about that night—besides her stunning beauty, not even diminishing for an inch with her stained robes and tousled hair—was her denial of her magical talents.

Perhaps it was because, after spending two thousand years working hard for it, Illidan couldn’t possibly understand how people would reject, refuse and deny their wealth and power when they only had it at hand’s reach.

Regardless, his confused thoughts on the matter don’t last for long, as plain irritation starts to show on his face. Because—and judging by the absence of people on the streets and the plaza—he realizes that the Moon Festival must have already began, and the woman he had been waiting for more than an hour had never shown up.

Something tugs and clenches inside his chest, frustration boiling up his throat. For—and to everyone that knows anything about him—it’s known that Illidan Stormrage does not deal well with rejection.

Fortunately, his companion sends him a knowing look when a grunt escapes Illidan’s lips, and the navy-haired female mercifully attempts for comfort, dismissing their previous conversation. “Oh, my sweet Lid, don’t give up just yet!” Syrana tries to soothe him, patting his shoulder. “Maybe you are looking too much into it, _again_. She must have probably been busy working with the Sisters to spare some time and coming to see you, I’m sure.”

Despite knowing that his friend is only being nice, a part of him prefers to believe that he probably had expected too much from Mylenne, _hoped_ too much. And that is why he only rolls his eyes in response, not making an effort of voicing his real thoughts on the subject.

But Syrana is insistent and when she doesn’t get an answer, she gets up from her seat, tugging at his expensive robes. “Alright, that’s it. I am not spending the night in this bench to only hear you whining and pouting.” The woman decides, her face completely resolute. “Get up, Stormrage. We are going together.”

“I… I am not sure of that, Syra. What about Lothrius?” Illidan says, not quite convinced and attempting for an excuse.

“Forget Lothrius, he’s on his shift tonight,” She dismisses his comment with a wave of her hand. “But we are not, and I am craving for some moonberry wine. So, come on, get up! You would not want a _lady_ to show up on such remarkable event all by herself, would you?”

That earns a loud cackle from the male’s lips, reluctantly accepting her offered hand. “You are a devious woman, do you know that?” But Illidan has to admit, as he interlocks his arm with hers and joins her on their walk, that her offer is much more preferable than to return to his home, even more so at that early hour of the night. “Lead the way… _milady_.”

* * *

At the sight of the Evermoon Commons thick with dozens of kaldorei, Illidan starts to wonder how much time had really passed, first gazing upon the many couples of Highborne and lowborn alike that are now passing by the street and the Evermoon Bazaar.

With the Commons filled with colored booths and pleasant music in the air, the attractive female beside him doesn’t hesitate to take a better hold of his arm and guide him through the thick crowd, probably heading first for some nice and expensive drinks to start warming up for the night.

Despite his pleasant company, the male sorcerer finds himself getting easily distracted by looking around them within each step they take, searching for a known face among the multitude of kaldorei that surrounds them. It gets to be an easy task, thanks to his height, finding copious amounts of purple, silver and blue booths on their way, as well as the contagious laughter from the many couples who had decided to come to celebrate.

However, it is after Syrana returns to his side with her new purchases—two expensive bottles of moonberry wine—that Illidan finds a flash of a bright-green mane through the corner of his eye. And it seems to be the perfect moment for his heart to drop to his stomach and his shoulders to fall down in utter disappointment, for then he finds them.

Malfurion Stormrage and Tyrande Whisperwind, holding hands, with a dear smile on their faces as they danced together to the soft, melodious music, uncaring of anybody who could be seeing them.

Most of all, uncaring if _he_ could see them.

Something breaks inside his chest at the sight, making him conscious—more than ever before—that there was no turning back from that, no possible way for mend that wound that now burns inside of him.

At first, he feels only plain disappointment and frustration, quickly shifting into sheer anger and numbing his senses. But then its regret, complete remorsefulness for accepting to come to that Festival in the first place, for having to see what he had seen, for being there with a woman which was not the one he had been looking forward to seeing.

And unable to keep seeing the _spectacle_ displayed before him, Illidan does the only thing he can do: He strides away from the Commons.

He’s unaware of Syrana worryingly following his steps, walking away from that scene with quick strides and heading to the Bazaar, with clenched teeth and a hand gripping his bottle of moonberry wine so tight that threatens to explode.

The only thing he wants is to return from when they came from, forget about everything that may relate to that stupid annual Festival and head right to the safety of his home, when he can—somehow—restart the night and go back to his activities as if anything had already happened, as if he hadn’t been feel rejected and refused _twice_ in a single night, as if he hadn’t been wanting to punch his own brother barely moments ago, as if…

This time, a flash of a very long, bright violet mane appears on his sights, and time stops for Illidan, his whole body suddenly going still.

And there she is: Sister Mylenne. The only female on Suramar City with a beauty only compared to the Goddess herself. _Mylenne_ …  

But to Illidan’s disappointment—which now he can only feel as a sick joke—the woman doesn’t notice his presence among the thick crowd or even the unwavering stare he’s unconsciously directing at her; instead, the cobalt-haired man can only watch as she quickly crosses the street, heading in the direction of another man which is seemingly calling her over.

“Lid… Lid? _Illidan_!” One of his pointy ears twitches at Syrana calling his name, but her voice sounds muffled and distant and he can’t turn around and look for his fellow sorcerer, for all his senses are completely fixed on the woman on the other side of the street.

He’s not aware of his own fuming when his gaze captures a silver-haired male with black and scarlet battle robes closing his distance with Mylenne, leaning to whisper something over one of her elegant lavender ears.

_Is this some kind of punishment from the Goddess? Because I haven’t prayed and asked for her guidance all these years?_ It’s all that Illidan can wonder, a sharp tang of jealousy tugging his chest at the male’s closeness and familiarity with the violet-haired woman he had been looking forward to meeting.

The unknown male is the first one to notice his presence, looking behind Mylenne’s shoulder and meeting Illidan’s golden eyes, sending him a sharp frown of his silver brows when Illidan directs a death glare in return, his eyes speaking for him when his mouth cannot.

“Uhm, Lid?” Syrana keeps talking, but he yanks away from her when the woman tries to get him on the move. “Lid, you are blocking the way and the Black Rook guards are coming…” She insists in an alarming tone, clutching at his arm and attempting to pull him without really succeeding.

But in that moment Illidan’s ears appear to shut close, seemingly blocking any sound coming to him and only echoing the noise of his own heartbeat, when the violet-haired woman he had been staring—for only the Goddess knows how much—turns around, bright silver eyes meeting golden.

His face softens and his muscles start to relax at the sight of the woman facing him, now noticing a translucent dusk lily adorning one of her lavender ears. And when a shy smile appears on her lips, next to a blush that starts to creep up her elegant neck, he can’t do anything but to return her smile, his mind already forgiving her for everything she had been—if unintentionally—forcing him to tolerate on that awful night.

But Mylenne’s smile disappears from her lips as quickly as it came, her eyes widening and lavender skin turning pale when something else captures her attention, over his side of the street. Illidan couldn’t possibly know what she had noticed, but whatever that could be it shouldn’t be good at all, for in the next second the woman starts to fidget in her spot, her feet slowly walking backward; her face, the perfect picture of dread and _sheer horror._

“Mylenne…” Illidan mutters, aware that his voice can’t reach her ears, his heart hammering inside his chest in apprehension, but he doesn’t succeed in regaining her attention.

Instead, the violet-haired woman does almost the very same thing he did, only minutes ago: She turns away from him and runs away from the Evermoon Bazaar, heading right to one of the small streets in a seeming attempt to get lost in the thick crowd.

Adrenaline starts to rush through his veins, his feet eager to get on the move. “I am sorry, Syra, but I should go.” It’s the only thing that Illidan voices to his friend and companion, barely glancing behind his shoulder.

And after hoping—only for a bare moment—that Syrana can forgive him for abandoning her, Illidan starts to run in Mylenne’s direction, barely making an effort of not pushing too many people on his way to the female kaldorei.


	7. Bond of Cunning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If you could only realize how your desperate needs for power and wealth have done for our family, An’da, I would not have wasted too many years by only fleeing from you and the Highborne. I would not have spent almost my whole life only escaping…_
> 
> She doesn’t want to cry, but her tears are as rebel as their owner, falling down and soaking her cheeks and violet markings in short time. However, it’s as her mind keeps working on the previous events and she sharply wipes her tears away in evident disgust that a sudden need to run and—perhaps—finding some shelter in solitude grows inside of her.
> 
> And because, even when she despises herself for it, she has grown so accustomed to escape and hide her feelings over the years that she doesn’t know of anything else to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing another new character--which, to be honest, had given me quite a headache, making me rewrite an entire scene from scratch. But I'm sure you'll like him :D   
> And well, I'm not the type of writer who asks for comments and reviews, but your opinions on this are really appreciated and encouraged! 
> 
> Then again, thanks to the usual readers (you know who you are) that are rooting for this story as it progresses. A million hugs to all of you, whenever you are <3

** Darnassian: **

**Ishnu-alah:** “Good fortune to you”. A greeting.

**An'da** : Father.

**Min’da:** Mother.

**Quel'dorei:** A slang for "Highborne". Children of noble birth.

**Elune-adore** :  “Elune be with you”, works as a greeting and a farewell.

* * *

** Stareye **

It’s only a brush on Jarod’s shoulder what Mylenne gives him as a silent apology—and an understanding that he would stay on his spot, watching her back—before heading off the Evermoon Bazaar, first attempting to blend in the thick crowd that fills the area.

Glancing behind her shoulder, she notices that Jarod had turned his back on her, probably intending to get the attention of the Black Rook guards that are now approaching to their location. But that doesn’t stop her, quickly lifting the skirts of her midnight-blue gown before rushing between two merchant stalls and heading to the closest dark alley she could reach.

Recognizing the childish and innocent face that could only belong to her fellow Sister, Thania, the kaldorei approaches to her tent, looking for a way to—at least—hide her own recognizable violet hair and markings over her cheeks behind the silver canopy that adorns the tent.

“Oh, _ishnu-alah_ , Myl! I am glad to…” Thania greets her but starts to frown after glancing at the newcomer, which now is bending under a wood table, barely careful of her gown brushing on the cobblestone floor. “Myl? What are you doing down—?”

“Sh!” Mylenne takes a finger to her mouth in the universal sign of silence, bringing her head further down to avoid hitting her long ears with the table’s surface. “I am not here! Cover me!” She quickly hisses after a flash of black boots adorned with crimson gems appears through the corner of her eye.

Fortunately, the Black Rook guards don’t seem to approach the tent; instead, the four boots turn to their right, disappearing around the next corner of the street, probably on their way to the Commons.

A relieved sigh escapes her lips, taking a minute before peaking above the table, still taking precious care of hiding behind the goods displayed on the stand. Thania moves to the side when the kaldorei gets out from her hiding spot, her thin brows still furrowed in confusion. “What was that? Are you in trouble?” She mutters, thankfully not craning her head to look at her.

But Mylenne keeps her head low in her way out, crouching behind her fellow Sister. “No, I am not, I only prefer to not be seen by the guards,” She explains, her voice only a whisper. “ _An’da_ is certainly looking for me, and…” She ends her sentence with a tired sigh, not really wanting to give her friend all the details behind it.

A hum escapes Thania’s lips and she nods to the table. “I see…” the woman murmurs above her, her face softening in realization and understanding.

But Mylenne gets aware that the silver tents occupied with novices and priestess of the Sisterhood of Elune could not be the best suitable place for her to hide, and she quickly returns her gaze to the matter at hand.

Before heading out of the tent, she brushes Thania’s ankle in a grateful sign, doing her best to not startle her. With another nod, her fellow Sister returns to her spot, extending her nimble hands to the sides of the table in a way to get the attention of any possible prying eyes.

Taking that as her cue to leave, Mylenne disappears behind the back curtain of the tent, swiftly heading to a dark alley that may work as a good shortcut to get out of the Bazaar. Luckily for the kaldorei, there are no guards to be seen in that alley, her heart slowing its fast racing as she ventures further and further.

If anything, the alley seems to be void of any _quel’dorei_ as well; the streets only crowded with their usual merchants and humble families, barely half a dozen children running around, seemingly enjoying the festivities.

A woman with navy-colored hair gives her a confused look as Mylenne brushes past her, noticing the violet markings on her face, but Mylenne doesn’t allow  the stranger to stare at her too much as she walks around the corner, losing her and her children from sight.

However, it doesn’t take too much for Mylenne to relate the hair color of the staring stranger to the female sorcerer who was clinging to Illidan’s arm, after she had spotted him on the other side of the street—his bright golden eyes fixed on her once more.  And, unconsciously, as she keeps walking close to the shadows, her feet heading to a humble tailoring shop, her thoughts drift to the male who was previously supposed to meet with her.

Perhaps Illidan had invited that female after the kaldorei couldn’t find some spare time to look for him at the Stronghold, but it wasn’t like Mylenne did that on purpose—after all, she had been working on placing the final decorations on the Sisterhood’s tents since the first hour in the night.

Sharp guilt tugs at her chest as she takes a seat on a small bench, seemingly hidden from prying eyes. _I should have told him to meet me here in the first place. It was rude of me to not state that before_ , a small part of her—that little part of her conscience which had already started to grow fond of the male—admits to herself.

At first, she can’t help but agree with that seeming innocent voice who speaks inside of her mind, and guilt gets heavier within her at reminding the ever so small things Illidan has done for her; for whatever his reasons were, Mylenne wouldn’t deny that he had been anything but kind with her. _Sweet_ , even, if the magically created dusk lily which now adorned one of her ears was any indication of it.

But then, as she carefully grabs the flower from her ear and cradles it between her hands, it’s another voice who whispers to her; one that carries the voice of her dear friend, Maiev, but also her advice, said not long ago.

_He seems brash, arrogant, and kind of a_ _beguiler_ _to me…_

Mylenne would be lying if she didn’t admit that the thought had crossed her mind quite a lot, lately; for there was something about Illidan’s nature that forced her to be wary of him—or, at least, to tread carefully on their encounters.

And his point of view regarding magic—his interest in _her_ magic—made everything worst for the handsome male, besides of placing a million questions in her head; questions that had started to haunt her in her sleep in the last month since Illidan and she met.

Why is he always staring at her in that particular way? What does he _really sees_ in her? Because—given Illidan’s talents for sorcery—Mylenne is sure that it’s on that subject where the answers for her questions rely on.

But, then again, why would Illidan be interested in someone as unskilled as her? Or, quoting her father: Why someone, _anyone_ , would lay their eyes on a useless woman like her?

It was worse than confusing for Mylenne, to place her thoughts on that subject. She hasn’t trained nor used her magic—besides some meaningless spells—for more than 1500 years, never even thought of doing it so after her mother’s sudden disappearance. And, to be honest, after all these years, she knows _anything_ about the real powers of the arcane within her, anything about how to use it to, at the very least, protect herself or her loved ones.

It’s after her silver gaze rests over a meaningless detail on her quite expensive robes, that another thought crosses her mind, the voice of Maiev invading her once more.

_I would not be surprised if he is looking forward to getting a place among the_ _quel’dorei_ _._

A tired sigh escapes her lilac lips as she gets up from her hidden seat, realizing that she had spent too much time in that spot and she needs to keep moving. Without thinking too much about it, she places her dusk lily over its previous spot on one of her ears and returns to the matter at hand, annoyance taking over her as she walks away from the festivities.

And she can’t help when a frustrated growl escapes her, heading away from the Moon Festival, from her friends, and from the handsome man she was supposed to meet that night; only because she doesn’t want to have an encounter with her father.

As the picture of Lord Desdel Stareye takes form in Mylenne’s mind, she shakes her head in an attempt to clear her mind, her steps quickening. Tears gather around her silver eyes as she keeps walking, for she knows that _he_ is the very one to blame for all her misfortunes.

_If you could only realize how your desperate needs for power and wealth have done for our family, An’da, I would not have wasted too many years by only fleeing from you and the Highborne. I would not have spent almost my whole life only_ escaping _…_

She doesn’t want to cry, but her tears are as rebel as their owner, falling down and soaking her cheeks and violet markings in short time. However, it’s as her mind keeps working on the previous events and she sharply wipes her tears away in evident disgust that a sudden need to run and—perhaps—finding some shelter in solitude grows inside of her.

And because, even when she despises herself for it, she has grown so accustomed to escape and hide her feelings over the years that she doesn’t know of anything else to do.

It’s when she sprints around one corner of the alley in her way to the Evermoon Harbor, that the bright silvery white light from the Moon reflects on the water and blinds her for a moment, a nimble hand lifting to shield her face. Mylenne doesn’t think twice about it and turns to her left, crossing a short bridge and preferring to stay away from the moonlight.

Blinding white dots dance in front of her eyes, but that’s not what makes her gasp in sudden surprise when she gets to the other side of the bridge.

Her reaction relies on after—all in a sudden—she collides face-first onto a broad chest, sending her stumbling backward while one of her heels gets hooked on the fold of her skirts. But Mylenne doesn’t fall, for then two strong gloved hands are holding her by her elbows, easily securing her in place and preventing her from meeting the cobblestone floor.

While feeling dazed, her body sends jolts of adrenaline to her brain, the first thought that crosses her mind of being seemingly caught by one of her father’s guards. But then, it’s a strange tingle which expands through her arms—the sensation coming from those strong hands holding her—that sends her heart racing for entirely different reasons.

And Mylenne doesn’t need for the stranger to speak—because she’s already aware of who’s holding her with just their touch on her skin, but she blinks rapidly anyway, trying her best to recover her focus.

“It seems that your stumbling upon people has become an odd habit…” A baritone voice reaches to her ears, helping her to get straightened. However, it seems that after the owner of that voice gets to take a better look at her, his grip on her arms don’t falter nor let her go out of their reach. 

Instead, it gets gentler, as a couple of thumbs start tracing soothing circles on her forearms. “Hey, Mylenne, hey…” The voice gets kinder, but she doesn’t need to see their face to hear the deep concern at the sound of her name, “Why are you crying? What happened?”

“Illidan, _please,_ ” The woman can’t help but beg him, struggling to step away from him; for she knows she can’t think straight or even have some composure with that particular male so _dangerously_ close to her. “I—I need to go, forgive me, but—”

Thankfully, the very last person—or was he the _first?_ —she was looking forward to meeting slowly takes a step back, but the unwillingness is evident in his face as Mylenne recovers her sight and gets to take a look at him. “I am only worried about you,” Illidan admits, not quite leaving her personal space. “You looked terrified when you ran away from the Bazaar. I have been looking for you since you fled...”

His statement gets the female to stop in her tracks before attempting to head off, her mind quickly processing his words. _Had he left his partner only to search for me? For_ me _, the very woman who left him alone at the Stronghold in the first place_ , the innocent voice of her conscience takes hold of her mind once more, dumbfounded and confused.

The male takes the advantage of her stunned silence and carefully raises a hand to her bare shoulder, probably looking to comfort her in some way. But then, it’s a flash of black and crimson surrounding the corner what gets Mylenne to step backward, silver eyes open wide and adrenaline coursing through her.

Illidan notices her panicked expression, craning his neck to look behind his shoulder as if trying to get a glance to what has captured her attention. However, the violet-haired woman doesn’t think twice about it and takes the male’s hand in hers, pulling them both to another hidden corner behind a big cerulean tree which adorns the street.

Surprised with her attitude, Illidan opens his mouth to voice a new question but doesn’t struggle with the woman, following her and hiding behind the tree, intertwining his fingers with hers in the process. “Mylenne—“ He starts, but she quickly hushes him with a flick of her hand close to his mouth.

“Sh! Keep quiet!” She hisses after peaking from behind the tree, noticing three Black Rook guards close to their location. Once their backs are turned, the woman takes a quick look at their surroundings, noticing a very tight alley that may possibly work their way out of the street.

While hunching down to remain hidden, she pulls Illidan’s hand in a silent order to stay behind her as she heads to the alley—which actually is the backyard of a humble tailoring store—doing her best to muffle her steps.

“Save your questions for later, now let us get out of here.” Mylenne mutters, lifting her skirts with her free hand and returning to the shadows once more, Illidan right behind her steps and seemingly unwilling to let go of her hand.

* * *

Mylenne had been wondering if her impulsive—and terribly odd—idea of bringing Illidan with her wasn’t something that she would regret later, not really taking in consideration that the male would be of any help for her.

Fortunately, her suspicions were proved wrong quite fast as they get past the tight alley, with the man abruptly taking the reins of the situation; something more than surprising for Mylenne as he finally stops his questioning and gets serious for once—as if he had been given a crucial assignment.

So it is when they don’t have any choice but to return to the streets, seemingly aware of the threat presented to Mylenne, Illidan suddenly grabs her by the waist and pushes her—not as kindly as she is now accustomed to—into the first store they have the chance to come across. But the male doesn’t enter after her, instead turning his back and blocking the entrance.

“Illidan, what are you—?” She tries to ask, but the only answer she gets is from his form, leaning on the store’s doorframe, crossing his arms and adopting a nonchalant pose.

“ _Elune-Adore!_ ” Illidan’s voice gets out in a higher pitch and slightly faked, covering her voice as well as her figure behind the doorframe. However, Mylenne doesn’t need to be told twice to close her mouth as it turns evident that the male’s plans are only to hide her from some prying eyes now walking the street.

She feels more than sees a couple of boots heading to their location, but Illidan keeps his speech, his relaxed posture never wavering. “It is odd to see some _quel’dorei_ hanging around these streets. Did you lose something?” Illidan asks to the pair, leaning further in his spot.

“Er, uhm…” Mylenne hears a male voice outside the store and tries to take a peek when curiosity gets the better of her; only to be rewarded with a subtle push from one of Illidan’s elbows, forcing her to stay away from the entrance.

“No business? That is great!” Illidan is quick to shush the unknown couple, his tone taking no objection as he dismisses them with a flick of his wrist. “On your way, then. You are blocking the sight of my store, hush hush!”

Unfortunately, the pair—which now Mylenne can recognize as a couple of Black Rook guards—don’t head out right away, suspicion starting to grow on them as they stop in their tracks.

But then, as the male before her starts to get tense, the shadow of a third kaldorei appears close to the store, dangerously walking straight to Illidan’s location.

“There, there. No need to be rude,” The newcomer speaks, their voice soft and calm as he approaches and lays a hand on Illidan’s broad shoulder, his action so sudden that almost breaks Illidan’s nonchalant façade, the female behind him barely holding a gasp.

Even as the new voice reminds Mylenne of someone she knows, her mind gets overwhelmed with panic that she can’t really think straight and focus on the stranger’s identity. Instead, her breath hitches as she desperately starts looking for another way out of the store.

Although this time it’s Illidan who senses her distress, shifting in his spot ever so subtly to only grab her trembling hand in his, his hold sending some assurance to her. But Mylenne’s heart starts racing wildly inside her chest when—after glancing at their joined hands—she gets to see how his palm gets _warmer_ within each second passing, the purplish-blue mist of an arcane spell floating between their intertwined fingers.

And while Mylenne doesn’t really know much about magic, it’s the unconscious part of her mind which recognizes the silent spell that Illidan is casting; for it’s not the first time that she gets to see that strong wave of energy dancing in the form of circles around a caster’s hand—the last time she got the chance to, being more than 1500 years ago.

_He is preparing to teleport us out._

But then, all of a sudden, Illidan’s grip on her hand softens when the stranger beside him continues his speech. “Please, forgive the hostility of my _assistant_. Unfortunately, he never got along very well with nobles such as you.”

However, the stranger doesn’t allow the guards to maintain a conversation, kindly pushing Illidan to the side and entering the store, not even bothering to look at the female now hunched down behind his _assistant_ ’s back. “Now, I’m afraid I have business to attend to. May Elune guide your paths.” He said then, dismissing the guards with an elegant nod before closing the door of the store.

_What in Elune’s name just happened?_

A full minute goes by without any of them voicing a single word, the sound of her fast heartbeat filling Mylenne’s ears as she sticks her back on the closest wall, her body tensing and preparing for anything. The male close to her neither gets relaxed with the sudden turn of events, the hand that keeps holding her own still flaring with arcane magic, his back pressed to her chest in his best attempt to protect her.

But the strange male is the one that breaks the silence, turning away from the couple and walking closer to the soft candlelight that illuminates the room of the store. “So, what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, dear little _Mylie_?”

The female is left speechless at the mention of her old nickname, daring to take a glimpse from behind Illidan’s broad shoulder when curiosity gets the better of her. It’s only when the soft light illuminates the male’s face that all the pieces of the puzzle are fit inside her mind.

“Uncle Silgryn!?” Mylenne speaks, not really believing what her eyes are seeing.

“Well, this place is rather dark for you to see me, isn’t it?” The male says, effortlessly casting a spell with a flick of his fingers, the small room illuminating within an instant. “Ah, much better!”

A part of her is hesitant to let go of Illidan’s hand—still so warm and soothing with his fingers laced on hers—but it’s what she has to do after identifying the kaldorei male who now stands before them, her hand traveling to Illidan’s elbow in a silent request for him to lay down his guard.

“Well, well, seems that times have changed! Who could say that my beloved niece would get acquainted with _sorcerers_?” Silgryn declares with a low chuckle, his wild violet hair brushing past his shoulders.

Silgryn’s remark gets the only cobalt-haired man in the room to cross his arms over his chest. “Should I be offended with that?” Illidan wonders with a frown, leaning on one hip.

“Nah, you’re good, lad,” Mylenne’s uncle reassures him with a nod, closing his distance with the couple before him. “Actually, more than good. I am glad that Mylie has some people to watch over her as you seem to do.”

Mylenne could only snort at his comment, noticing Illidan’s proud smirk through the corner of her eye, totally taking the praise. “Though that never stopped you from almost giving me a heart attack,” The female remarks; however, the complaint doesn’t last for long as another question crosses her mind. “Wait, do you really run this store?”

That only elicits a wild cackle out of him. “Do you really take me for a tailor?” Silgryn says as his contagious laugh fills the room. “No, this place belongs to a friend of mine. I’m only taking care of it while she’s out of town.”

“A _friend_ , huh?” Mylenne wonders, crossing her arms and imitating Illidan’s posture, a teasing smile on her lilac lips.

“I’m not taking that bait, child, for I am very fond of her _husband_ as well.” Her uncle answers with a low chuckle, looking at the female with a dear smile plastered on his face. But then he gives her a knowing look and adds, “Besides, well… I could say the same to _you_ …”

At Silgryn’s bantering, the female’s cheeks start to darken, a wild blush creeping up from her neck and spreading on her face as her smile disappears. The _absolutely pleasing_ grin that Illidan directs at her is also less than helpful, making Mylenne step away from the males just a little if only to—somehow—cover her embarrassment.

_Three hundred years without seeing him and then, it feels just like yesterday, teasing me with any male he gets the chance to see me with. Maiev will be so happy when she finds out of his return._

“Alright, I give up!” She lifts her hands in the universal sign for surrender, quickly looking for a way out of that awful topic. “What tipped me off, anyway?”

Fortunately, Silgryn allows the sudden turn of the conversation, pointing at her face with his chin. “Your hair, of course,” He explains without hesitation. “It seems that some things never change. You still shine like a beacon with Elune’s reflection upon you. Just like your _Min’da_ …”

“That _I_ can tell,” It’s Illidan who speaks this time, taking two steps backward to lean his back on the closest wall.

His features soften—if only slightly—when her silver eyes find his golden ones, but Mylenne can’t help with frowning when his gaze fixed in no point in particular. And their small exchange only lasts for a mere moment, but the woman still could notice how his whole attitude seems to change when his attention is focused on her.

His golden eyes gleaming in delight, his mouth slightly open, even his hard chin lifting up a couple of inches as if his nose attempted to get a better scent. And Mylenne wasn’t good with many things, but what she had always been good at was with _observing_ ; taking the smallest and silliest of details from everything—and everyone—and saving them in her memory like pieces of a puzzle.

Illidan Stormrage had never been the exception to the rule, but she’s aware that, within each encounter, he is unknowingly turning out to be a _very complicated_ puzzle to be solved.

“Mmh, and that’s an interesting remark, Lord…?”

Silgryn’s voice gets them both out of their own reverie, the cobalt-haired male awkwardly clearing his throat before answering, seemingly struggling—if only for a mere second—to take his eyes away from her. “I am not a Lord. Only, uhm—Illidan is just fine.”

It’s then when Mylenne notices how Illidan’s gaze wavers for a moment, realizing that it’s the first time since they met that she sees that apparently troubled side of him. Her face softens at the—if unwilling—small revelation, for she never thought of seeing a small vulnerability in him; always acting so sure of himself, so confident, carrying a proud smile on his face whenever he went.

_It seems that we are not so different after all._

“Alright, now that we are done with the introductions, how about sending some more help over here?” Mylenne opts for a change of topic, only to save him the bitter moment—she owes him as much, after all. “Uncle, we need to get out, preferably in a way to avoid being seen by _An’da_ ’s guards.”

Silgryn is quick in returning his attention to her, humming in thought and tapping his index finger on his mouth, seemingly trying to elaborate a plan. Surprisingly, it’s the other male in the room who speaks first, not without previously sending her a small nod of appreciation, his eyes locking with hers for a very small moment.

“You only needed to ask, for I have the perfect idea,” Illidan says, a mischievous smirk creeping up on his dark lips, returning to his usual façade once more.

“Uh-huh. Feel like sharing?” The woman has to ask, feeling more curious rather than concerned about what he may be thinking about, an elegant violet brow rising in interest.

With that, the sorcerer moves away from the wall he had been leaning on, uncrossing his arms as he starts to explain. “Well, as your uncle just mentioned before, you are quite easy to be spotted with only looking at your hair,” Illidan admits, closing his distance with Mylenne and capturing a strand of her violet mane between his fingers.

The male takes a moment to seemingly appreciate the texture of it, curling the long strand on his index finger, his golden eyes gleaming in evident pleasure—as if really liking what he was seeing. Then, he glances at her uncle before continuing, his voice slightly lowering. “I must remark that it would be a shame to hide such beauty of yours, but yes, it should be fairly easy to create a disguise for you.”

That definitely gets Silgryn’s attention. “A disguise? Mmh, that’s very, very clever,” The male admits, nodding in agreement. However, not much time goes by before another amused smirk appears on his lips. “You know, I’m starting to like this… _friend_ of yours, Mylie.”

“Uncle!” The woman exclaims—although she may never know if her complaint comes for his endless bantering or the constant use of that awful nickname from her childhood.

But her reaction only elicits an amused laugh from Illidan and Silgryn, both males looking at her with evident amusement on their faces.

“Alright, alright! I will stop now,” Her uncle concedes, raising his hands in submission, though his smirk never leaves his face.

It is after taking a quick look at their surroundings that Silgryn nods with his head in the direction of some stairs located in the back of the room, his short violet hair waving as he turns on his back. “Go ahead then, you should find everything you need on the first floor.”

At Silgryn’s signal, the male next to her gives her a dashing smile, elegantly moving to the side and flicking his wrist in a silent request for the woman to go first. Mylenne could only snort and shake her head in mock disapproval, but leading the way to the stairs nonetheless.

“ _Males_ …” She mutters before disappearing into the first floor, provoking a cackle out of Illidan, which follows right after her without hesitation.


	8. Veil of Illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mylenne tilts her head at him, certainly surprised with his response. “So, I must assume that you take enjoyment on getting into trouble?” The female only snorts when her only answer gets to be a sly smirk from Illidan’s lips. “Alright, what is next, then? Is this some kind of regular job for you, saving damsels on a nightly basis?”
> 
> This time she’s prepared for his amused laugh, her own mouth contorting into a grin when it gets too contagious. “Well, I am afraid I am not used to that,” Illidan answers, slowly—and subtly—moving his free hand to rest above hers. “For only _very beautiful_ damsels tend to capture my full interest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warning for a liiiiiiiitle bit of nudity!_
> 
>  
> 
> A huge lot of thanks to the ones rooting for Mylie and Lid (yep, they're going to be called like that now, they totally deserve those horrible nicknames!), you are the best <3  
> Can't wait to know what do you think of this one :D

** Darnassian: **

**An'da:**  Father.

* * *

** Stareye **

Mylenne’s mind is torn with so many thoughts going on in her head as she climbs the stairs, heading to the first floor of the store, now being taken and run temporarily by her uncle. A store which also looked like the place where Silgryn’s friends lived—if she could judge by the furniture adorning the hallway and the big bed placed in what seemed to be a bedroom.

It’s probably out of sheer curiosity when her feet lead her to that particular room, using a hand to move a delicate silk curtain before going in. Once she gets closer to the bed—the end of it placed right in the middle of the bedroom—she takes a minute to admire the decoration. _Seems like my uncle’s friend has a very good taste with colors_ , the kaldorei thinks as her silver eyes observe all the beautiful paintings adorning the bedroom.

To her right and under a stunning painting, apparently hand-painted with the symbol of the Goddess Elune over the canvas, it stood a short wardrobe made of dark wood. The furniture captures her attention as one of the drawers being slightly open, revealing a variety of multi-colored female clothes inside it.

Hoping that the owner wouldn’t mind, her hands capture one of the clothes, taking a very long sky blue skirt from the drawer. With her fingers running over the beautiful turquoise details around the waist, Mylenne gets distracted by enjoying the soft texture of the silk in her hands, almost slipping through her fingers like water.

It’s a baritone voice what takes her out of her reverie. “Have you looked for the other piece of that dress?”

Mylenne gets startled with the sound of Illidan’s voice so close to where she’s standing, her neck making a funny noise when her silver gaze travels to the entrance of the room. A sly smirk runs through Illidan’s lips when their eyes meet, his arms crossed over his chest as one of his shoulders rests on the doorframe, looking nonchalant as usual.

The female can’t help it when she feels her cheeks darken, an ever so slight shudder running down her back with that entrancing gaze of his. A part of her is aware that she could spend hours by just looking at those beautiful, bright golden eyes; but then, another more conscious part of her mind can’t do anything but be wary of Illidan and his unwavering stare.

Because she still remembers that he’s a sorcerer—a very skilled sorcerer, if people’s comments about it were right and the constant display of his magic was any indication of it. And even when he persistently tried to prove that he wasn’t a threat, Mylenne still couldn’t figure his real intentions with her.

“I—I am sorry, I did not hear you coming,” The female says, wanting to smack herself for not finding control of her voice. After clearing her throat, she tries again. “Uhm, how long have you been there?”

Illidan only shrugs, his sly smirk transforming onto a dear smile. “Not long enough, to be honest,” He replies before moving from his spot and entering the bedroom, the curtain falling down behind him. “So? Have you found the other piece of that dress?”

“How do you know this is a dress and not only a skirt?” Mylenne asks, giving him a confused look, hesitating of putting the cloth on its previous place. “How do you know anything about women clothing, anyway?”

That gets a cackle out of the male, taking two steps and closing his distance to her. “Perhaps you never had the chance to see the usual conjurer’s robes,” Illidan remarks as one of his hands runs over the folds of the soft silk. “Skirts are not only for women, you know?”

“I certainly cannot imagine you wearing a skirt,” Mylenne has to admit, feeling amused with the bare thought.

His smile widens when his eyes return to the female’s face, seemingly glad to only take a smile out of her. Fortunately, she doesn’t startle this time when his hands reach hers, slowly taking the clothing out of her grasp—although she notices the small movement he makes to only brush his fingers over her wrist, if only for a bare moment.

“Then you should come and visit me on the Stronghold one day,” Illidan seemingly offers, walking some steps back to place the delicate silk over the bed, running a hand to smooth some creases on the clothing. “We usually use our formal robes when Conjurers come to make their monthly inspections.”

His apparent proposal gets the female crossing her arms over her chest, a long purple eyebrow rising in curiosity. “I should confess, then, that I am more interested to know why you keep insisting in joining me—or join you—everywhere. Even more so after tonight’s unfortunate events...”

Her features soften when their eyes meet once more, but Mylenne can’t hold his gaze for much longer this time—her head and shoulders hunching down in evident remorse. It’s after the male slowly comes back to her side that she continues, “I… I am sorry for not going to meet you at the Stronghold, Illidan. It was rude and mean from my part, and I have no real excuse for it.”

Her blushing returns once more, but for entirely different reasons this time. However, what she surprisingly gets is a small smile from the man before her, “You do not need to apologize, Mylenne.” Illidan says, eyes boring into her. “In any case, if you insist on doing so, perhaps you may want to enlighten me about what happened downstairs…”

“Yeah, you really deserve some answers,” The female admits with a shrug of her shoulders, although she doesn’t really know where to start. “Well, I… I am trying to avoid been seen by my father.”

“You have previously explained that part to your uncle. What I am not aware is why you are avoiding him,” Illidan replies, delicately grabbing her hand in both of his.

It’s as he cups her hand that he then carefully leads her to one side of the bed, seemingly trying for both of them to sit and have a talk. With his actions, Mylenne gets consciously aware of his gentleness towards her—noticing how he always looks for an excuse to touch her, yet being ever so careful, ever so tender every time he holds her.

And the warmth that starts to expand through her chest has nothing to do with the temperature in the room, nor with the nice heat coming from those hands holding hers.  

“That—that is a long story, I am afraid. I do not want to bore you with the details.” The female confesses as she takes a seat beside him, still unable to look at his face.

However, even when her gaze travels to a silver-gray detail on one of his gloves, she feels more than sees the small smirk on his lips. Then she hears it as he says, “I believe that you could not _ever_ bore me, Mylenne.”

The sound of her name coming from that baritone voice of his is what captures her whole attention, her silver gaze traveling to Illidan’s lips before resting on his bright, _so bright_ golden eyes. But then, when she opens her mouth to reply, no sound comes from her, feeling too distracted by only seeing him.

The intense thrum of her heartbeat is what insists her to continue—if hesitantly, a small part of her being afraid to break the beautiful feeling blossoming inside her chest. An ever so warm sensation she hadn’t felt for a long, _long time_.

But her curiosity gets harder and more overwhelming within each second passing, forcing the female to gently get her hand away from his grasp, a tired sigh coming out of her lips as she says, “Illidan, I do not understand this little game of yours. You do not know me _at all_ , yet you helped me to get into hiding without hesitation.”

Mylenne couldn’t say if the sudden frowning of his cobalt eyebrows gets to be from what she have said or for now finding his hands empty. “Is there a problem with that?”

“No… yes. I am unsure,” She starts to miss the contact of their joined fingers from the very second she left them, but she knows that it’s what she needs to maintain her composure. “I could have handled all this on my own and still, you risked a lot downstairs by only trying to protect me. You were even casting a teleportation spell for us before Silgryn came to our aid.”

“Well, it was either doing that or making them sleep,” Illidan explains as if it’s obvious. “I thought it could be better to not draw any more unwanted attention. At the very least, that is what you looked afraid of…”

It’s when his features harden and the sound of his voice comes out defensive that Mylenne can’t help with her need to reassure him. “And for that, I am truly grateful.” She insists, leaning to the side to fully face him, careful of the sky blue skirt resting behind them over the bed.

“But still… _why_? Why are you always trying to help me, Illidan? You could be enjoying the festivities right now, spending some time with that friend of yours that you came here with. I would be upset in her place if my partner were to leave me alone for another female...”

She doesn’t really expect the chuckle that comes out of him, imitating her position and holding his side with one elbow. His cobalt mane gets in the way and Illidan relaxes next to her as he brushes a couple of strands away from his shoulders.

“Do you always think so low of yourself?” The male suddenly wonders as if voicing his thoughts aloud. It’s when she opens her mouth to retort something at him when he continues. “Instead of why, I would ask _why not_? This little adventure of yours had been the most entertaining thing for me as for tonight.”

Mylenne tilts her head at him, certainly surprised with his response. “So, I must assume that you take enjoyment on getting into trouble?” The female only snorts when her only answer gets to be a sly smirk from Illidan’s lips. “Alright, what is next, then? Is this some kind of regular job for you, saving damsels on a nightly basis?”

This time she’s prepared for his amused laugh, her own mouth contorting into a grin when it gets too contagious. “Well, I am afraid I am not used to that,” Illidan answers, slowly—and subtly—moving his free hand to rest above hers. “For only _very beautiful_ damsels tend to capture my full interest.”

Her blushing returns with full force, some strands of her violet hair falling down her face when she turns her gaze away, attempting to hide her embarrassment.

Both of them fall silent for a while, basking in the soothing sensation of their hands intertwined—the brushing of their fingers sending tingles to Mylenne’s arm as a dark thumb traces idle circles over her wrist. With her elbows leaning on the bed, the female finally relaxes for the first time on that agitated night, allowing her mind to go blank and silent for once.

It had been a long time since she interacted or get acquainted with another kaldorei born with magic in their blood—and even with her wariness towards anything or anyone that might be skilled with the arcane, Mylenne couldn’t deny the wonderful sensation of feeling someone else’s aura so close to her skin.

She can’t certainly explain it, but the warmth coming from Illidan’s touch could only be comparable with the Moon’s caress over her skin. Soothing like a mother’s embrace, relaxing like the caress of the wind—yet also _enticing_ , with that tingling expanding through her arm, like a kiss from the most gentle lover.

A shiver runs from her neck to her back when a baritone voice whispers very close to her ear. “The night is still young for you to take a nap,” Illidan reminds her, his pleased smile being the first thing she gets to see when she opens her eyes.

With that smile plastered on the male’s lips Mylenne realizes that, somehow, the male is quite aware of what he provokes on her. _He had always been aware of that,_ her conscious mind retorts as if scolding her for being oblivious.

However, instead of blushing—and perhaps proving Illidan’s point—she opts for nonchalance. “Oh, but this bed is so comfortable,” She complains with a pout, “Maybe we can stay here for ten more minutes… or a week…”

“Well, despite the fact that I would gladly join you, I do not believe _your uncle_ would agree with your idea,” Illidan remarks, brushing her wrist one last time before leaving her side, heading to the wardrobe, seemingly looking for something inside the drawer she had previously opened.

Trying to keep down a grunt of discomfort, Mylenne sits on the bed, her eyes capturing the male’s long cobalt hair as it falls down his shoulders. “So, you have something better to offer?” She wonders, leaning on one elbow to get a better sight of what he’s doing.

Illidan only snorts, as if not surprised with her lack of faith. “ _Of course_ I do… and here it is,”

Then, he turns around, a wide smug smile showing on his face as he shows her a piece of clothing—a delicate sky blue top with turquoise details, seemingly matching the skirt she had previously found. “See? I _told_ you that it was a dress,”

A loud cackle escapes Mylenne’s lips at the sight of him, acting as if he proudly solved a very complicated mystery. “I still do not know if I should be alarmed or amused with this odd knowledge of yours…” The female admits, shaking her head in mock disbelief. However, when Illidan keeps silent, she continues. “And? What about it?”

His smile never wavers as he returns to her spot on the bed once more. “Here, change into this dress. I am sure your uncle’s friend would not mind,” Illidan says, placing the delicate clothing over her thighs.

Mylenne can only stay still as he gently picks the dusk lily that adorns one of her pointed ears, the flower disappearing inside his palm, leaving only a faint purplish-blue mist behind.

“What are you talking about? Why should I change my robes?” The female only stares at his face, violet eyebrows frowning in confusion.

Illidan can only imitate her frowning, crossing his arms over his chest as he returns her stare. “So I can create a disguise for you. Have you forgotten why we are here for?”

With his statement she can only blink twice as, all of a sudden, the memory of their previous events starts to repeat in her conscience.

_“Well, as your uncle just mentioned before, you are quite easy to be spotted with only looking at your hair. I must remark that it would be a shame to hide such beauty of yours, but yes, it should be fairly easy to create a disguise for you.”_

Once more, she wants to smack herself for being so oblivious, accidentally forgetting the real reason for why they were there in the first place. However, Mylenne hasn’t thought that a disguise would imply a change of clothing as well—it’s a clever idea, nonetheless, for she could be easily recognized wearing her expensive robes either way.

Still, it’s as she rises from the bed and picks the garments that the female notices Illidan not moving from where he’s standing. “And… are you going to stay there and watch as I change?”

Mylenne has to keep a laugh when the smug smile from the male before her suddenly disappears, seemingly caught by surprise with her question. “Oh, I am sorry. I—uhm, yeah,” Illidan fumbles with his words, a dark hand scratching the back of his head in apparent bashfulness.

Unable to keep his eyes on her—and with the female now chuckling at his reaction—Illidan takes some steps backward, heading to the hallway. “I—I will be outside, yeah,” It’s the only thing she hears from his mumbling before disappearing behind the curtains.

* * *

After the female gets to be alone in the master bedroom, she waits for a minute before getting to the task at hand, facing the bed where the two-piece dress is set over the sheets and pointing a long lavender ear to the entrance.

It’s when the sound of muffled steps disappear behind the curtains—seemingly going down to the lower floor of the building—Mylenne allows a loud sigh to escape her lips, her muscles relaxing after finding some solitude.

With her gaze idly traveling to the robes before her, she takes another moment to wonder how she got to accept that odd idea from Illidan in the first place. _You should have fled from the Bazaar before accepting to take Illidan with you. You wouldn’t be facing this insane turn of events otherwise. What were you thinking, woman?_

Mylenne snorts in disgust, shaking her head in an attempt to clear that insistence voice of her conscience. “Or I should have stopped running _for once_ and keep everyone from taking part in this madness,” She mutters low, guilt tugging at her chest after admitting—at least to herself—that she was the only one to blame.

However, the female knows that she will get nothing by pondering over the previous events. No matter how much she wanted to keep running and avoiding her _An'da_ , she’s consciously aware that she wouldn’t be able to keep doing that for long.

 _Most of all, I don’t_ want _to keep running. I am so tired of running away…_

It’s after a lump starts to take place in her throat when Mylenne gets to the matter at hand, pulling the straps of her midnight blue dress with a little more force than necessary. Stripping out of her robes, the female is suddenly grateful of not wearing a bra—for that could be uncomfortable to keep the other piece of clothing she’s about to wear on.

Revealing her bare breasts, the female stretches her back to unlatch another couple of straps that hold her dress over the back of her waist, allowing the clothing to fall down her legs and knees, the silk creating a puddle between her feet.

A sudden shiver runs through her when she ends up in only her undergarments, quickly taking a seat on the bed to put on the borrowed sky blue dress, first wearing the long skirt, careful of not pulling the silk too much. After adjusting the turquoise belt over her waist, she unlatches the straps of the top piece before putting it in place.

However, after covering the upper part of her body, a deep frown crosses her features when she straightens her back once more and finally manages to clasp the straps back in place. “Oh, not this again…” Mylenne groans, trying to adjust the top piece in the best way she can.

Still, her attempts turn out to be useless, the clothing tightening her ribs and compressing her breasts in a very uncomfortable way.

_I can’t believe my luck. How do I always manage to choose clothes in a smaller size? This is ridiculous…_

But her grumbling doesn’t last for long after one of her long pointy ears suddenly twitches, sounds of muffled steps coming closer to the curtain made of silk that divides the bedroom from the hallway.

Only Illidan’s figure is visible behind the curtain, but it’s at that moment when Mylenne starts to wonder if the male had been staying on the hallway all along instead of going down the stairs, as she had previously thought—the noise had come from too close, after all.

_Had he been trying to pry all this time?_

Yet, the figure behind the curtain doesn’t move, although his hands move to rest over his hips in apparent impatience. Mylenne decides to not keep him waiting for much longer, taking a quick look at herself and adjust her skirt before speaking, “You can come in, now!”

The cobalt-haired kaldorei doesn’t hesitate to return to the bedroom, easily moving the curtain to the side and making his entrance.

“You took your sweet time. For a moment I thought—“ Illidan mumbles when he gets past the bedroom’s entrance, but the rest of his sentence gets caught in his throat when his golden stare fixes on her. “Oh. You look…”

Mylenne waves a hand at him, keeping him from talking. “I already _know_ ,” She declares, looking to any point in the bedroom and avoiding his unwavering stare. “Apparently this was a smaller size than I would have thought,“

She feels more than sees the sly smirk creeping up to Illidan’s lips as he gets closer, steady on his steps. “I was about to say that you look _beautiful_ ,” The male remarks with a tilt of his head, not even making an effort of hiding his burning gaze on her. “You should definitely keep that dress.”

His comment gets a snort out of her, pale lavender hands running up her arms as if trying to cover some of her exposed skin. “And struggling to breathe in the process? I should beg the Goddess for mercy, then.”

Illidan only chuckles, his smirk widening in a pleased grin. “Here, let me help you,” However, he doesn’t wait for her approval while he places a dark hand over her shoulder, silently requesting her to turn around.

She’s sure that he feels her nervousness—if one of his fingers tracing soothing circles over her shoulder is any indication—but the female decides to remain silent as he gently moves her long violet mane to the side with his free hand, revealing her back to him.

Her breath hitches when she feels the ghost touch of a fingertip tracing down her spine, her cheeks darkening in less than an instant. A very warm, almost _burning_ shiver threatens to follow the route of Illidan’s finger, all her muscles clenching on her back and lower abdomen as he keeps going down…

Until something else loosens.

However, when she startles, she’s aware that it’s for an entirely different reason. “Now, is that better?” A deep baritone voice whispers very close to her ear.

Mylenne can only nod sharply, taking a step further and away from him in clear bashfulness. Despite the top piece now being slightly loosened and her ribs not so compressed as before, she’s still feeling that she’s going to accidentally rip that piece of clothing if her heart doesn’t stop hammering its way out of her chest.

Her mind fills with a lot of possible excuses for her to get out of the main bedroom right away and avoid getting more embarrassed. So, she does her best to not face Illidan—and she _can’t_ , not when she’s blushing so hard that she feels her cheeks almost burning—her best thought of attempting to head outside, her long violet hair returning to rest over her back as she starts walking to the hallway.

Only to be stopped with a warm hand holding her wrist. “Hey, why is the hurry?” Illidan asks, and she can tell by only the sound of his voice that he’s not succeeding in hiding his evident amusement. 

“I… uhm, I need to—“ Her words come out in a silly babbling as she tries to look everywhere but to his face, shifting uncomfortably in her spot.

This time, Illidan can’t keep his chuckling from going out of his lips, his genuine, warm laughter filling her ears and muffling the sound of her own heartbeats—if only for a second.

However, he doesn’t allow her to escape from his grasp, walking to stand right before her and blocking her only way out of the bedroom. “This will not take long, but you should close your eyes,” He explains after his laughter subsides.

His smile never wavers as he slowly—ever so _tenderly_ —cups her blushing face with his dark hands and closes the distance between them. A very low gasp escapes Mylenne’s lips when her silver eyes finally meet his golden ones, his eyes shining brighter than ever before, their faces only inches away from each other.

At their closeness, she can notice the stunning beauty of Illidan’s eyes—the delicate shades of amber and yellow which adorns the iris, joining the bright golden like the most perfect painting.

Mylenne’s mouth goes dry and her heart beats so hard inside her chest that, for a moment, she gets afraid of him hearing it. With her blood fast rushing to her brain, her breath hitches once more when that golden stare of his travels to her lips, his smile slowly fading.

 _Goddess… Is he going to_ kiss _me?_  

“Illidan…” She breathes, her voice thin and weak, staring at him with wide eyes. “What—?“

This time, the male notices her apprehension, the curve of his mouth—which had previously lifted up at the sound of his name—flattening and his jaw tightening. However, it’s his golden gaze which gleams in reassurance next to the ghost touch of his thumbs on her cheeks as Illidan says, his voice soft, “Calm down, I would _never_ dare to hurt you,”

Her brain abruptly stops sending loud alarms, a hesitant sigh escaping her lavender lips as she tries her best to acknowledge him—only succeeding with relaxing her shoulders a little bit. After taking two breaths, Mylenne’s hands hesitantly travel to his wrists, timidly closing her fingers over the edge of where his gloves end and his warm skin starts to show.

“Close your eyes, Mylenne.” He insists once more, and this time she obeys.

A seemingly disappointed sigh escapes her lips when her silver eyes flutter close—a very large part of her _yearning_ for that kiss to happen, rebelling when that moment apparently was never supposed to become real.

However, all her thoughts disappear in the mere inch of a second when the hands tenderly holding her face start to get warmer, a small tingle expanding through her cheeks and the rest of her body.

Illidan’s lips brushed her forehead ever so slightly, his breath soft against her face, washing over her like the loving caress of the wind as he starts mumbling words she doesn’t understand, repeating them over and over like a prayer.

The tingling sensation—cascading waves of arcane energy—coming from Illidan’s hands slowly start to run through her neck and collarbones, expanding like spider webs over her arms, her chest, traveling down to her stomach and her long lavender legs.  

Something remarkably close to a breeze gathers in her long violet hair, long strands waving and brushing her shoulders in their way, tempting the female kaldorei to open her eyes and get a glance of what is happening around her. However, she decides against it, feeling how all her muscles start to relax with Illidan’s magic washing over her, enveloping her body like silk blankets.

So warm, so tender and soft—and Mylenne’s whole body relaxes with his touch, her head feeling heavy and resting on the strong hands that hold her, heartbeats evening within each second passing.

She doesn’t know how much time passed, but then the female’s knees start to wobble, her legs unable to hold the weight of her as she leans further on Illidan’s hands, feeling drained of her energy. The male gasps in alarm when her forehead falls to rest on his bare chest not so gracefully, a strong arm circling her waist to grab her before she falls to the ground.

“Mylenne, are you alright?” Illidan asks, his baritone voice tight with concern, his other arm holding her by the shoulders as he rests one cheek on the top of her head.

“Just… ti—tired,” She mumbles below him, leaning further on his chest and burying herself in his embrace.

A small part of her wants to straighten up and let go, but there’s something about the feeling of his skin against hers—the ever warmth that surrounds him—that seems to call for her, tempting her to forget about the whole world and just _rest_ there. Just for a mere moment, in those strong arms protecting her from whatever may come outside of his embrace.

And a mere moment is what she gets, Illidan’s arms tightening before letting go, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders if only to keep holding her. “I am sorry. I take the blame on that,” He explains as he lowers his head to get on her eye level. “I guess that I went a little far ahead and I accidentally drained you.”

“Wh—what?” She mumbles back, blinking repeatedly and trying to hold his gaze. However, her thoughts are dismissed when another wave of arcane magic washes over her, a purplish-blue mist seemingly getting through her skin. All of a sudden, her energy and vitality comes back, her limbs not so heavy anymore.

“There you go, all better now,” His face becomes clear, allowing Mylenne to see a relieved smile crossing his lips. However, she also gets to see the pleading in his golden eyes, a silent request for her to drop the subject—at least for that moment—provoking a small frown on her face.

But after a couple of seconds, she concedes with a thoughtful nod, not really feeling up to discuss arcane magic and its effects on them. Is it then when Mylenne dares to step back and out of his reach, attempting to take a look at herself.

Though—and apparently—Illidan is not willing to let her go just yet, one dark hand brushing her shoulder as he walks to place behind her. “I believe you need only one more thing,” He says, outstretching an arm to grab something from the bed table beside them.

Then, the male burrows his fingers on her long hair, grabbing some strands on the top in an attempt to tie it in a very familiar ponytail. “So… is this another of your secret activities? A savior of damsels _and_ a hairstylist?” Mylenne tries for a joke to change the mood, a wide grin showing in her face while she leans her head down, letting him work on her mane.

“Well, I think I have become an expert on this, as for tying my own hair for _two thousand years_ by now,” Illidan says back, amusement returning to his voice.

His comment only gets a chuckle from her, sharing his amusement and surrendering to his ministrations once more. When he finishes, he returns to stand before her, quickly—yet tender and carefully as usual—brushing his thumbs over her cheeks, the small sensation of a tingle returning to her skin.

However, the tingling comes as quickly as it goes, with the male taking an appreciative look at her when he finishes. “Oh, I almost forgot!” One of his hands opens in front of her, revealing the same translucent dusk lily he had previously taken, returning the flower to their spot over one of her ears.

He brushes a strand of her hair away from her face. “Now, I believe we are done with your disguise,” Illidan declares, a playful smirk creeping up his lips.

“So… how do I look?” The female can’t help in sharing his good mood and gives him her best dashing smile. Though she also decides to go with a little bantering as she continues, “Better or worse than that _friend_ of yours you came here with?”

This time, Illidan’s smile couldn’t get any wider. “Well, you can see for yourself.”

Taking one of her hands in his, the male then pulls the curtains from the bedroom’s entrance aside and leads her to the hallway, where a big, full-body mirror is placed on one of the walls. Illidan allows her to take a look, moving to the side to let her face the mirror. 

Her eyes open wide in surprise, for when she takes a step further and takes a look at herself she barely recognizes the woman she’s looking at.

Instead of her bright violet mane now there is a long cascade of navy hair, the color shifting into cerulean tones when the light of the candles reflects on it. Her violet markings are gone as well, next to the usual lavender of her skin—a very pale lilac, remarkably close to an alabaster tone adorning her body.

“So?” A cobalt-haired male appears behind her, though he doesn’t bother to look in the mirror, seemingly preferring to look at the real woman in front of him. “What do you think?”

This time, she allows that long and strong arm of his encircle her waist, dark-skinned fingers almost burning when they brush over Mylenne’s abdomen, her own hand traveling to rest on one of his shoulders.

“Well, I am only wondering,” She smiles to their reflection in the mirror, “What is your friend’s name? I should take her name as well, given that now we look _remarkably_ the same.”

“Does it matter who do you look like?” Illidan wonders, his golden stare unwavering. “She is certainly not as beautiful as you, and hiding your beauty is what crossed my mind in the first place.”

His remark gets a snort out of her, a small navy strand waving and falling behind her ears. “As well as with sorcery, you seem to be very well trained with _words_ ,” Mylenne remarks with a lift of her eyebrows, turning away from the mirror and facing the male.

She’s not aware of when did she get that comfortable with his touch or his closeness, but it’s right at that moment, right when they are facing each other once again, when she realizes that she _likes_ it—and her heart flutters when realization dawns on her, blinking twice as if she had been slapped in the face.

She _likes_ Illidan Stormrage.

She can’t help it when he grins at her, reciprocating with another big smile of her own, their faces again inches away from each other—and she _likes_ that.

However, is as Mylenne looks into his eyes, those stunning golden eyes with shades of amber and yellow, that she gets to notice his gaze fixed on her silver orbs—the only part of her that is not disguised—looking at her like a gift from the very Goddess.

She likes that _the most._

She feels more than hears his skin—his energy, his aura, the very intangible part of him—calling for her, _yearning_ for her, enveloping her in its warmth as she slowly lifts on her tiptoes, her mind going blank with her sheer _desire_ to close the distance between their lips.

His strong arms tighten around her waist, a cobalt-haired head moving down being the last thing Mylenne gets to see before fluttering her eyes shut, her nimble hands traveling to his chest. Once again, his breath is soft against her face, washing over her like pure, clean water, as she ventures further to finally meet the source of his warmth…

Until another voice reaches her ears, a male one which comes from the main floor. “So, are you going to stay up there, Mylie? Because I _really_ should get going!”


	9. Illusory Snare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She may feel like it’s time for them to go, but Illidan certainly doesn’t want to, doesn’t even have the strength to. Why would he? Why should he let her go with her uncle and to the streets once more, after the moment they had previously shared?
> 
> No, he _shouldn’t._ Not after he had touched her. Not after he had previously pried through the curtains and glanced at her naked figure behind them. Not after he had already tasted a drop of her magic—a hard swallow runs through Illidan’s throat at the bare thought, the delightful feeling of her pure arcane energy slipping through his skin.
> 
> He shouldn’t. Not when his very soul is now hungry for it, craving and needing for more—for he didn’t know that he was starving until he tasted _her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and this poor excuse of a chapter.  
> Writer's block ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

** Darnassian: **

**Elune-Adore:** “Elune be with you.”

**Quel'dorei:** Children of noble birth (Slang for "Highborne")

* * *

** Stormrage **

Where once it stood that beautiful sensation of her—that _too beautiful woman_ rising on her tiptoes to reach him, his arms full of her, her entrancing aura silencing every dark and troubled thought on his head—another voice reached him and Mylenne, striking them both like a sudden thunder.

“So, are you going to stay up there, Mylie? Because I  _really_ should get going!” The voice yelled from below, breaking the spell that surrounded them.

The perfect fantasy that his mind had created for him suddenly shatters, exploding into a thousand pieces when the female in his arms opens her eyes wide and retaliates, a wild blush creeping up to her cheeks—a blush that not even a perfect disguise can cover.

Illidan’s jaw tightens, his conscience barely holding a desperate cry when the feeling of _her_ starts to abandon his body, like sand slipping through his fingers.

_No… no! I want this, I… I_ need _this. I need this like I need air! Don’t hold back, you can’t hold back after—_

But Mylenne straightens once more, awkwardly clearing her throat and looking anywhere but him. “Uhm, we should probably get going,” She murmurs, nimble hands traveling to her arms as if she’s cold—or perhaps with the need of doing something else instead of touching him, he may never know.

She may feel like it’s time for them to go, but Illidan certainly doesn’t want to, doesn’t even have the strength to. Why would he? Why should he let her go with her uncle and to the streets once more, after the moment they had previously shared?

No, he _shouldn’t_. Not after he had touched her. Not after he had previously pried through the curtains and glanced at her naked figure behind them. Not after he had already tasted a drop of her magic—a hard swallow runs through Illidan’s throat at the bare thought, the delightful feeling of her pure arcane energy slipping through his skin.

He shouldn’t. Not when his very soul is now hungry for it, craving and needing for more—for he didn’t know that he was starving until he tasted _her._

“Illidan?” Her voice sounds like music to his ears, yet his muscles tense when her soft breath reaches him, hands closing into fists in a silly attempt to maintain some composure. “Illidan, your eyes… your eyes are glowing.”

It takes only two heartbeats for him to process that information, blinking thrice and trying to snap out of his reverie. His gaze travels to his arms, trepidation clinging onto him after glancing at the electric sparks running through his skin—the evident sign of his magic attempting to escape his own body.

When a small hand climbs to rest above one of his fists, his breath hitches. “Are you alright?” Mylenne asks, looking terribly concerned, although her voice gets muffled with the loud alarms running on his head.

_Of course_ _I’m not. Don’t you see? How can you even think of touching me when it’s so evident that I am running out of control? How can you—_

“Illidan…” The female insists once more, her silver eyes—the only thing of her that he could not disguise—entering on his line of sight. Beautiful, bright silver eyes in which he suddenly gets all the answers.

Somehow, for reasons unknown, she’s not realizing what she provokes in him, doesn’t get to see his magic slipping out of his skin in violent shockwaves.

_She feels it, but can’t see it. Can that be even possible?_

However, it’s another voice—deeper and laced with suspicion—what strikes Illidan this time. “Lad…” A violet-haired male calls for him, standing in the middle of the stairs, the single word coming out of his mouth as the only warning he’s seemingly going to give him.

Illidan’s neck moves to the side, golden eyes traveling to meet Silgryn’s dark-silver gaze, fists slowly opening with the threatening glare that the male is directing at him. A low growl escapes Illidan’s mouth, yet he obeys to Silgryn’s silent command, the shockwaves on his skin slowly fading and his aura returning to its previous resting state.

Illidan knows as much that he needs to be in control; he _is_ the master of it, after all—the control over his magic is what always got him to be so skilled in the arcane in the first place. And—at the very least—he feels glad that someone else can be able to make him snap before doing something stupid.

After taking one long breath his gaze returns to the female, which is only observing the scene displayed in front of her, curiosity narrowed on her bright silver eyes. One side of his mouth curves up, trying his best to keep Mylenne from worrying.

It’s a whistle coming from her uncle what makes the woman startle and break her gaze from Illidan’s face. “Well, well, good job, you two,” Silgryn declares from the stairs, taking an appreciative look at Illidan’s handiwork. “Nice touch with the hairstyle! You now look like a complete unknown to me, little Mylie.”

A proud smile reaches Illidan’s lips, accepting the compliment and glad for the abrupt change in the conversation. “Yeah, I barely recognized myself in the mirror,” The female admits, moving her cerulean mane past her shoulders. It doesn’t take long for her to drop the previous subject, a dear smile crossing her lips as she returns her eyes to him. “It really was a clever idea. Thank you, Illidan…”

His smile widens in response, something warm and delightful blooming inside his chest when he has Mylenne’s complete attention. “Always a pleasure,” Illidan says when he can find his voice, though it comes out deeper than usual and a little bit rasped.

However, it doesn’t take long for Silgryn to guide his niece to the main floor. “So, you know I would offer you to stay in here, little Mylie, but unfortunately this isn’t my home to make such suggestion,” The kaldorei admits with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders while they walk down the stairs, “Besides, I have another friend who needs my assistance. He’s waiting for me as we speak.”

Illidan takes two deep breaths to return to his usual façade, unwilling to be left behind as he walks down to the main floor after Mylenne and Silgryn. Though—and only judging by the male before him protectively placing an arm around the shoulders of his niece—he concedes Silgryn’s silent request, placing some distance between him and the couple.

Once Illidan finds his self-control he leans his back on a counter, watching the conversation between the relatives. He can’t help with the longing smile clinging to his lips as he listens to Mylenne’s heartwarming laugh next to her uncle, a comforting aura of familiarity surrounding the pair.

A tang of nostalgia washes over him at the sight. How long it’s been since he shared a nice moment with Malfurion? Somehow, he can’t even remember the last time he and his brother laughed at something together—and yet, his mind can point the precise moment when their relationship started to get tumultuous, dangerously close to the point of no return between them.

It had been since his brother decided to pursue a relationship with Tyrande Whisperwind; the female which Illidan had been pining for millennia.

However—and when another happy laughter from the female before him reaches his ears—the sharp tang that tugs at Illidan’s chest shifts into something more hurtful, like pure heat dripping down his throat. Plain guilt strikes through him this time, barely suppressing a groan coming out of his lips.

_You are a complete ingrate, Illidan_ , his conscience scolds him. You _should be embarrassed, thinking about Tyrande while having this beautiful woman right before you. How many times do you need to remind yourself that she’s a lost cause?_

It’s after two blinks when his ears shut close, the sudden fight inside his mind getting too loud for Illidan to be focusing on something else.

Despite that his feelings for Tyrande may have changed in time, when did finding some distraction with another woman had become something… _dishonest_ for him? He hadn’t ever felt guilty for courting or bedding whoever unknown female had crossed his way—not even Syrana, even when he considered her a good friend. What’s the difference with Mylenne?

The voice of another male suddenly enters his mind, echoing the very first words he directed at him, barely an hour ago: _“…_ _I am glad that Mylie has some people to watch over her as you seem to do.”_

With that reminder, something snaps inside him, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together. _Well, well, Stormrage, this is new. It seems that you_ care _about her…_

It’s after his conscience gets into a fight with all his crossed and tangled thoughts, that Illidan gets unaware of the couple before him walking outside the store, too entrenched in his self-discoveries to even hear Mylenne and Silgryn calling for him.

“Hey, lad!” A big calloused hand which can only belong to Silgryn slaps his shoulder, taking him out of his reverie. “It seems that we lost you for a moment…”

Illidan shakes his head in his best attempt to clear his mind, running a hand through the back of his neck to ease his sudden tension. However, his body allows any of it after his golden eyes find Mylenne—who had crossed the street without him noticing—her cerulean hair waving as she talks with a new male he doesn’t recognize.

His hands close into fists, a purplish-blue mist coming out of his skin, unknowingly preparing to face the new threat before him. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt Mylenne, nor even dare to touch her—not on his watch, and absolutely not after realizing that he _cares_ about her.

Because that’s the difference between her and all the unknown females he once courted or took into his bed. This time, and with that woman, he _cares_. And all the gods be damned if he wouldn’t do something about it.

However, Illidan doesn’t get to step forward before the hand that previously slapped him now suddenly holds the same shoulder, keeping him in place. “That’s Vanthir, lad, and a good friend of mine. He means no harm,” Silgryn explains to him, his voice firm.

His comments get Illidan to—if reluctantly—break his gaze from the pair on the street, nodding to Mylenne’s uncle in both acknowledgment and apology. Yet he doesn’t feel to voice his opinion, his throat too tight and mind too clouded to even come up with words.

With his silence, Silgryn eases his hold on Illidan’s shoulder. “You know, lad, I’m not aware of what do you really know about Mylie and, to be honest, it is not my place to tell you so,” Silgryn admits, not bothering to look at his face. “But I will be damned if I don’t warn you against using your magic when you’re close to her.”

Illidan’s jaw tightens, noticing the small threat in his voice. “Yet, I believe I know what happened upstairs,” The violet-haired male continues, gently pushing him forward and to the street. “Like my sister, her daughter is just as special. However, little Mylie never had the chance to embrace her skills for the arcane—that is why her eyes can’t see what we see.”

“That is the reason of why she… _shines_ so much?” Illidan can’t help but ask when curiosity gets the better of him, although he also winces when he doesn’t find the right word to explain himself.

Silgryn winces next to him, “What? Shining, you say?” He wonders, taking a glance at the couple before them. “I wasn’t being literal when I said that she shines like a beacon, lad. She looks… fine. Definitely not _shining_ …”

“But—“ Illidan’s words get caught in his throat when he follows Silgryn’s gaze.

He certainly can’t explain it but, right there, a few meters before him and with the reflection of the Moon upon her skin, her inner beauty evidently stands out from the rest—and not even her disguise can cover that godlike, perfect aura that surrounds her.

Perhaps he was right after all and, actually, he _is_ the only kaldorei in the world that can see her for what she truly is. That line of thought certainly would explain a lot; why his brother can’t see it, or the Sisters, or why not even her uncle can notice it, with that grace and beauty showing up right before his eyes.

Illidan’s lips unconsciously curve up in a dear smile when her silver eyes find him. “Oh, Illidan!” Mylenne calls him from the other side of the street, a wide grin spread on her face as she outstretches an arm in his direction. “Are we going?”

He eagerly nods to her, but can’t help with glancing to Silgryn—still placed beside him—before daring to move forward. Silgryn’s face is calm and neutral as he returns his gaze, just as his voice when he asks, “Should I trust that you’ll watch over my niece, _sorcerer_?”

Once more, he notices the small warning in his voice, but this time Illidan doesn’t feel threatened. “About what happened upstairs… it will not happen again, sir,” He says, chin held up high, “I can _assure_ you of that.”

That gets a cackle out of Silgryn, slapping his shoulder once more and lightly pushing him to the other side of the street. “That’s what I like to hear!” The male says happily, waving a hand to the couple before him.

Mylenne crosses the street, her hand still outstretched to him and her dear smile widening when he decides to capture her arm in his. “Guess who took his sweet time now…” She teases in a low voice, for only Illidan to hear.

As they walk away from Silgryn and his friend, they both turn around and wave to the kaldorei in farewell. “ _Elune-adore_ , little Lily! Don’t have too much fun without me!” Her uncle yells and winks at them from the other side of the street.

* * *

Their walk to the Evermoon Bazaar is slow and serene, the exact thing Illidan had been looking forward to having with her the entire night. Still, he can’t help but glance at his companion every now and then through the corner of his eye, awe adorning his face when he finds Mylenne below him, looking more relaxed and at ease than ever before.

He doesn’t really know when the woman had started to get so comfortable in his presence, but he’s certainly not going to complain about the sudden change in her behavior.

While they walk, her cerulean mane comes to rest on one of his arms, a peaceful sigh escaping her lips when he slightly tightens his hold on her. “So… _Lily_ , huh?” Illidan wonders in a low tone, trying to keep her from startling. “What was that for?”

“Oh, well,” Mylenne shrugs below him, “Uncle came up with that name. He thought that I would need it after… uhm, now that I look like another woman.”

A pleased smile reaches Illidan’s lips when the delicate, magical flower resting on top of her ear starts gleaming, the reflection of the Moon upon it almost demanding his attention. “A clever idea. I like it,” He finds himself in the need of clearing his throat when Mylenne’s eyes travel to his face. “I mean—the name. I like the name.”

“Yeah, me too… the _name_ ,” It’s the only answer he gets from Mylenne while she sends him a knowing look from behind her long eyelashes.

Still, the female’s eyes never falter, her disguised face softening when Illidan returns her small smile with one of his own, his free hand coming to rest atop of hers—right on that spot when his gloves end and his dark skin starts to show.

Illidan certainly can’t explain it, yet he finds her silver eyes absolutely _entrancing_ , the act of looking at them too powerful to ignore. It’s almost as if a slow time spell is cast at him every time he gets to lock his gaze on them; the whole world blurring and stopping, leaving only that woman for him to see—her silver gaze, two bright beacons soothing his mind and body with its light.

He finds it so terribly easy to forget about the Goddess when those bright silver orbs are looking at him—for Illidan would prefer to worship that light, _her light,_ without even thinking twice about it.

A sound dangerously close to a painful keen threatens to escape Illidan’s mouth when the woman breaks her gaze, abruptly returning him to the world of the living—and just in time for his senses to adjust once more.

In the fraction of a second, Illidan swiftly pulls Mylenne’s arm and holds her in place, keeping them from crashing on a palanquin that suddenly appeared from nowhere. “Hey! Watch your steps, _lowborns_!” The only occupant—a noble dark-bearded kaldorei—growls at them, making Illidan’s lips curl into a disgusted sneer, protectively tightening his hold on the female.

Yet, she doesn’t waste a single second by looking at the noble Highborne—or his four bearers below the extravagant litter—using their joined arms to pull Illidan to the side, conveniently ignoring the obstacle before them and turning around the corner.

“Pay no mind to that poor excuse of a kaldorei,” Mylenne grumbles between clenched teeth as she chooses to take another route to get to their destination. “Those _quel’dorei_ believe to be above everything and everyone. It is utterly disgusting…”

A deep frown crosses Illidan’s forehead while he allows her to lead the way, not really agreeing with her statements about the Highborne, yet doubting to retort something at her—for it looks quite evident that he seems to be missing something.

So, he opts for neutrality. “I believe that to be natural,” Illidan shrugs in his best attempt for nonchalance. “At the very least, it is how I believe that social classes work.”

“ _Natural_ , you say?” Mylenne returns his frown with one of her own, a tint of annoyance adorning her silver gaze. “Do you seriously believe it to be _natural_ for a group of people to have control and power over the rest of the population?”

Her angry glare strikes him hard, making him realize that it’s the first time he gets to see the woman in that state—and fortunately not because of something he’d done, yet close enough to be the next reason for her ire if he keeps insisting on contradicting her.

However, he can’t really help with doing so, although he tries to maintain a neutral tone in his voice. “I actually do. It has been always like that and it is how our society works,” Illidan admits with a small sneer, “Kaldorei who were born with the right name, or those who bonded or married another noble, get to rule among the others. Those who are not that lucky have to either marry the right one or work harder to earn their place.”

With their gazes locked, Illidan can see how her brain seems to process his words, mulling over them as the air around them grows oddly thick with a tint of tension, her silence becoming unbearable within each second passing. Sheer confusion adorns his face as he tries to think the possible reasons for the woman’s evident despise towards the Highborne, dark lips parting in an attempt to voice his thoughts to her.

Yet Mylenne is the first to break the thick silence as she says, “So, it is that easy, huh? I cannot help but wonder about where do you stand on this. Do you look forward to marrying a noble Lady, then?”

A cobalt eyebrow rises in curiosity when he notices a very small tint of jealousy in Mylenne’s voice. _Well, that is interesting_ , he thinks, savoring what he can get while a sly smirk starts to show over his dark lips.

“Mmh, I actually never saw myself settling down with someone, much less a noble Lady,” His answer comes in a half-joke, the rest of it sounding more of a confession, a small gleaming in his eyes that reveals—for the briefest of moments—the real Illidan Stormrage who lies beneath that charming façade he’d been building over the centuries.

In his mind, he thinks that the small piece of knowledge he so blatantly gives to the woman would please her. At the very least, it would help for turning the conversation into another more secure ground for him; that being of returning to the usual road of shameless teasing—and something dangerously close to a _courting_ in between—they’d been having through the course of that night.

However, and once more, Mylenne’s reaction is not what he expects. For when he’d been waiting for her face to blush and her silver eyes to dart away in embarrassment—although with a little gleam of amusement in between—what he really gets in the next blink of her eyes is… _disillusionment_.

When the only answer he gets from her lips is a low hum, silence grows thick on them once more, an awkward feeling tugging at his chest as they keep walking with their arms intertwined—so close yet _so far_ from each other.

Illidan would pay a lot of gold only to get a grasp of Mylenne’s thoughts over his words, for he can’t possibly understand what did he said for her to react in that way, the bright aura that surrounds her dulling, darkening, not so soothing anymore. And with each step they take, it starts to feel as if she’s unconsciously creating a wall around herself—almost as if she’s protecting herself _from him._

The sensation grows as they turn around the corner of the street, their closeness eventually shifting into something oddly uncomfortable, the air around them like a stormy dark cloud. So, when he can’t handle it anymore, he decides to—if reluctantly—slowly release her arm latched with his.

Surprisingly, it turns out to be a very easy thing to do after she stops in her tracks, her gaze locked on a silver-haired male dressed in Black Rook leather robes a couple of meters ahead of them.

In some part, he feels relieved when Mylenne gets distracted—mostly when her aura slowly returns to its previous usual state, almost as if her energies attempt to replicate her state of mind.

But then, annoyance narrows Illidan’s face when the woman starts to walk away from him, her feet going in the direction of the man that captured her attention. “Hey!” The male protests, certainly unwilling to be left apart, following her with quick strides and cobalt brows furrowing in irritation.

But Mylenne doesn’t turn around and either wait for him, reaching the end of the street and entering the Evermoon Bazaar, going straight for the male’s shoulder and making him turn around.

His irritation grows to dangerous levels when the silver-haired man reveals his face, a groan escaping Illidan’s mouth and unconsciously lowering his speed at recognizing the kaldorei which had been with Mylenne before his arrival.

He doesn’t really hold any grudge against the man, for Illidan doesn’t even know his name. But he can recognize that look in his eyes from miles away—that small spark in their gaze, the ever so slight lingering, the lack of a blink, or even the little creases around the corners when the sight gets to be _too much_.

“ _Ishnu-alah_. May I help you, milady?” The man says to Mylenne—no, _Lily_ —the corners of his lips curving up in a practiced, yet forced smile.

“Jarod, it’s me, Myl!” Illidan gets the words more by watching the female’s lips moving rather than hearing them.

That’s when he notices the shift in the male’s eyes; first, there’s an astonished blink—a natural reaction one would get when recognizing someone’s voice. Then the male’s frown deepens as well as the creasing around the corners of his eyes; until that part, Illidan still understands.

Yet the spark in those eyes never waver, nor the lingering—if anything, it intensifies; his dull silver gaze barely roaming over the female’s small waist and her chest for the briefest of moments.

Illidan’s jaw tightens, teeth pressed together in an attempt to keep the deep growl that threatens to escape his throat, his best effort for caging and containing the beast within.

He can recognize that look in those dull eyes from miles away, and he doesn’t like it—even worse; he _loathes_ it.

“ _What_!? Mylen—!” The man barely exclaims, only to be silenced with a brief smack on his silver head. “Ow!”

Illidan’s feet guide him to stand beside her, his shadow looming over the smaller man. “Keep quiet!” The female hisses before quickly glancing at her surroundings, yet she doesn’t flinch away when he gets close to her personal space.

A concealed smirk creeps to his lips, savoring the very small victory at hand—for he couldn’t be sure if her silent admittance it’s caused by her recent distraction or because he had unconsciously earned her trust already.

But then again, he knows he’d take anything he can get from Mylenne.

Illidan’s chest swells in satisfaction when the female steps away from her silver-haired acquaintance, taking shelter behind one of his bare elbows, held up high with his arms crossed over his chest. A small part of him is aware that he’s not being polite—and certainly not making a good first impression to the man before him—but Illidan can’t help it in tasting the sweet tang of triumph when the disguised woman unconsciously chooses to stand by his side.

And triumph couldn’t taste sweeter on his tongue when he pins the silver-haired male before him with a death glare, successfully wiping his—barely concealed—lascivious stare off the woman to look him back.

“Uhm, yeah, I forgot,” The voice of Mylenne—not _Lily_ , not this time, for her voice is not disguised—comes out from behind his elbow, “This is Jarod Shadowsong, my best friend and 1st Lieutenant of the Black Rook Guard.”

A pale slender arm enters to his periphery and points at the male before him, yet he doesn’t nod nor salute, as Illidan being too busy pinning the man under his threatening gaze. “You remember him, Jarod? He is Illidan Stormrage, from the Moon Guard. I believe you saw him a month ago when we—“

But her apparent friend turns out to show his rudeness when he interrupts her. “A _sorcerer_? Really?” Jarod growls to the female, not making a single effort of hiding his displeasure. “So, he’s the one to blame for this… _thing_ he did to you.” He spits, lips curved in a disgusted sneer.

“I beg your pardon?” Illidan snarls with a rich deep tone, his baritone voice succeeding in sounding menacing—and he savors another victory on his lips when the silver-haired male tries his best not to recoil, yet his body can’t help it in doing so.

But then, Mylenne’s friend remains silent as another woman rushes to his side in a haste. Holding herself with an elegant hand on his shoulder, she leans onto the male for a moment, breathing heavily. “Brother, I believe we are good…” The woman speaks, her chest moving with her panting, adjusting her long silver ponytail away from her shoulder with her free hand.

Her breath hitches when her eyes find him. “Oh, _you_ ,” She mutters, a deep frown crossing her forehead. “What do you want, _sorcerer_?”


	10. Dancing Mists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illidan can’t help the rolling of his eyes, idly wondering for how long does he need to endure the siblings’ evident despise for magic. “It is called a _spell_ ,” He informs the female, rapidly growing tired of her insolence. “And it is only temporary.”
> 
> “Nobody forced me to do this, Maiev,” Mylenne adds, seemingly taken aback with her friend’s shock—almost as if she couldn’t believe the words coming from her mouth. “Illidan had only been helping me tonight, and he certainly did so without any awful questioning!”
> 
> That only earned a petty snort from Maiev. “Of course he did,” She says in a mocking tone, quickly recovering, “Going to help the _poor damsel in distress_ like any good quel’dorei aspirant will do.”

** Darnassian: **

**Min’da:** Mother.

 **Quel'dorei:** Children of noble birth (Slang for "Highborne")

 **Arane:** A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for “Nightmare/s”.  

* * *

** Stormrage **

Despite every insult he may or may not have received over the centuries—lowborn, insolent, petty aspirant, beguiler, unworthy—the fact of being insulted simply for being a sorcerer is something that doesn’t disturb Illidan at all.

He’s aware of the rumors regarding his natural abilities. Actually, he had heard all of them: From the opinion about only nobles and aristocrats being worthy of such gifts, to the assumption of magic being only a tool to corrupt and taint people’s minds.

Yet, there he stands. A—certainly—untainted kaldorei from a low caste; gifted by the Goddess and probably one of the best sorcerers of their era.

Born on sundown, out of his _Min’da_ ’s womb mere minutes before his brother and blessed with golden eyes; the clear mark of the Mother Moon upon him, the only sign that even before drawing his first breath, he had been destined for greatness.

It had been more than twelve thousand years when the next generation of the joined families of Stormhaze and Moonrage inherited another golden-eyed member; only Lord Moonrage, his _Min’da_ ’s grandfather, had been blessed before him.

Elune and all the Gods above could be damned if he were to feel insulted only for being a talented sorcerer—only for being _better_ than them.

So, it’s only a dismissive snort what the silver-haired woman gets as an answer, Illidan’s back and shoulders straightening, showing his complete lack of interest in maintaining that line of conversation.

However, one of his cobalt eyebrows rises in curiosity when Mylenne comes out from behind him, sending a growing annoying glare to the relatives. “Maiev…” Mylenne whispers, trying to capture her attention.

The other male, instead, doesn’t seem to acknowledge his friend. “You know this man, sister?” Jarod asks the female next to him, looking rather surprised.

“Bah, I can recognize the likes of him from miles away.” The female—Maiev, if he heard Mylenne correctly—snarls, rolling her silver eyes as if the answer seems obvious. “So, what do you want? If you are looking for Mylenne then get on the line, for you are not the only one.”

Illidan doesn’t have the chance to speak, for then her brother takes a step forward, raising a hand to point at Mylenne, still partially hiding behind Illidan. “Well, about that—“

Yet she doesn’t listen, her voice rising in volume, irritation and exasperation showing on the sharp angles of her face. “Or better yet, drop off your search, she must have probably—“

“Maiev, would you shut up for one second? I am _here_!” Mylenne comes out from behind him in the form of Lily, her tones certainly showing how she had reached the end of her patience.

The woman with silver hair gets stunned, mouth gaping and speechless, silver eyes wide open as if she had just been slapped. Her long ears twitch in recognition and her brother rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers, an apparent intent to ease the tension and anticipation growing around the four of them.

Long, uncomfortable seconds go through in complete silence, only the sounds of laughing couples and exultant merchants selling their wares filling the air. “Huh? Myl? What are you doing here?” The annoying woman finally murmurs, her throat bobbing as she slowly recovers her composure, “Why are you… uhm, dressed—what is this sorcery?”

Illidan can’t help the rolling of his eyes, idly wondering for how long does he need to endure the siblings’ evident despise for magic. “It is called a _spell,_ ” He informs the female, rapidly growing tired of her insolence. “And it is only temporary.”

“Nobody forced me to do this, Maiev,” Mylenne adds, seemingly taken aback with her friend’s shock—almost as if she couldn’t believe the words coming from her mouth. “Illidan had only been helping me tonight, and he certainly did so without any awful questioning!”

That only earned a petty snort from Maiev. “Of course he did,” She says in a mocking tone, quickly recovering, “Going to help the _poor damsel in distress_ like any good _quel’dorei_ aspirant will do.”

She spits the words as if being poison—mocking and disgusted at the same time—and Illidan’s blood boils up with anger, now really feeling insulted. How dared she call him like that? His arms uncross by themselves, hands curled into fists and glowing with the intensity of his growing irritation.

Yet, Mylenne keeps talking, “I can’t believe this. Why are you two being so rude?” Her voice quavers and he shoots a glance at her, noticing how her silver eyes get glossy, tears threatening to come out and soak her face, taut with dismay. “I asked _him_ to do this for me! You’re just…”

His fists uncurl and his face softens at the upsetting sight of her. “It is alright, Myl—Lily,” He corrects himself at the last moment, a dark hand traveling to place over her bare shoulder. “I am used to this,” Illidan adds softly as a tingle runs through his fingers—the usual reaction he gets when he touches her—trying to soothe her with a thumb tracing small circles close to her collarbone.

However, she gently brushes his hand away and shakes her head in denial, “No, it is not,” She insists, eyes shuttering and a disappointed sigh leaving her lips. “I just wanted to enjoy the festivities without father or his guards lurking on my back.”

“Which _we_ were just taking care of it for you without any need of foul magic in between!” Maiev claims with a hand pointing at herself and her brother, which has gone silent after apparently noticing Mylenne’s upsetting state, his silver eyes looking at nowhere in particular and lips pressed into a thin line.

“Then I apologize for being such a burden to you,” Mylenne’s words come out in a rush—as if she’s not thinking what she’s saying. However, Illidan recognizes the pained look in her eyes when she flutters them open.

Only the Goddess knows how often he had to deal with rejection, how he had to make his way in Suramar without the support of anyone—sometimes, not even with the support of Malfurion. That is why his fingers travel to lace with hers, golden eyes gleaming with understanding and empathy when she returns his stare.

Deep down he wishes to not really know how she must be feeling, yet his heart clenches inside his chest because he’s still terribly aware of it.

Relief washes over him when she closes her fingers on his hand, her aura going still with resolution and her face softening in the next blink, showing her appreciation when their eyes lock on each other—only for a second.

He can’t read Mylenne’s mind but something in her gaze tells him that—probably after their last conversation—she’d been planning to leave him, most likely preferring to return to the comfortable company of her friends. Illidan can’t help with sending her a very small smile, feeling terribly glad that she had seemingly changed her mind.

When she returns her eyes to the siblings, she seems steadier. “Thank you for your help, then. I’ll not bother you further,” The silver-haired female opens her mouth to protest but Mylenne cuts her off with a wave of her free hand. “No, I will not be a nuisance to you two. Enjoy the festivities.”

Her blue skirt waves as she turns around, pulling his hand in her way and mumbling something to herself as she walks away. Illidan only has a second to let go of her hand and, instead, protectively encircle her shoulders—always careful of not messing with her hair in the process.

After taking a couple of steps forward—and with Mylenne beside him seemingly distracted—he takes advantage of the moment, sending a triumphant smile to the Shadowsong siblings from over his shoulder, savoring the angry look on their faces before disappearing around the corner of the street, on their way to the Evermoon Commons.  

* * *

The next hour goes by with Mylenne apparently having a newfound purpose: Spend the rest of the night only enjoying one another’s company, leaving all the previous tense moments behind—right where they belong.

So they walk around the Commons, always with their hands or arms linked, and browse all the stalls and kiosks they happened to come across. He successfully grabs two glasses of Moonberry wine from a waitress—who idly walks around the crowd—and Mylenne sends him a look of approval with the way he managed to get them some drinks while not letting go of her arm all along.

“I am amazed at the fact that you remembered I like Moonberry wine,” She admits while trying to avoid a couple of banners hanging from the trees and roofs—which Illidan takes as a good opportunity to impress her further, easily brushing them aside with his free hand.

“It was easy to remember when my officer had been complaining about it for a whole week!” He says in a bantering tone, sending her a knowing look which only succeeds in making her burst into laughter.

And something flutters inside his chest with the melody of her voice—blossoming like delicate petals of the warmest flower—but he brushes the feeling aside, filing and saving it for later to wonder about. On that moment he prefers to share her laughter, doing a victory toast before finishing their drinks.

After taking the corner, they find a jewelry booth and spend some time with Mylenne trying lots of pendants and earrings with different sizes and colors. He insists on buying her a pair of silver earrings with crescent moons—which match her stunning eyes—but she refuses his offer with the same insistence, alleging that she’s not used to wearing earrings.

“Then what are we doing here?” Illidan wonders when she takes a ninth pair to try—two azure gems cut in the form of delicate tears—while he helps her to put away the ones she still has on her long ears.

A small blush creeps over her cheeks when he brushes away a lock of her hair, although he’s too concentrated in his task that he only notices it a mere moment before it fades. “Because it is fun?” She answers with another question, a playful grin plastered on her face. “Here, you should try these ones,”

He tries to protest but his mind goes blank when the woman gets closer and gently bends his head with a nimble hand on the back of his neck. The hairs on his neck rise up with her slight touch, making him focus on keeping a small groan from escaping when two of her fingers brush over the sensitive tip of his ear, sending a pleasurable shiver down his spine.

Yet the small pinch never comes, for then she places a metallic cover on the tip—and his eyes flutter close in his best attempt to stay still when a second shiver threatens to break his composure. If Mylenne notices the way his shoulders tense for a small second, he couldn’t possibly know. But he endures the delightful feeling of her fingers without a single protest.

When he opens her eyes, she’s beaming at him; a lovely smile on her lips, silver eyes wide and taking him in—a gaze so clear in which he can see his own reflection. He tries to blink away the stunning sight, yet a big part of him resists doing so.

It gets to be a hard, so hard task; those beautiful, silver orbs delving into his soul and warming him from the inside out like beacons of the purest light—added with a bit of conscious narcissism from his part, for he feels like he could stare at his own reflection for the rest of his life.

Illidan knows it’s a spell; it _must_ be or, at the very least, he can’t think of anything else that could have that effect on him. He had ever felt so compelled before, so close to dropping the remnants of his mastered self-control only for him to…

A flash of bright green clings to his periphery, abruptly—and _thankfully_ —breaking the unknown and mysterious spell of her presence. This time his eyes blink twice to adjust his sights and delete all possible figments, but he knows who he’s staring at, past Mylenne’s shoulders.

“You do not like it?” She asks after breaking eye contact. With his vision still foggy, Mylenne hands him a small mirror to look at himself, “I think they look lovely, and they match your eyes…”

But—even with her praising—his gaze is locked on the familiar couple of kaldorei, walking hand by hand to another stall, browsing through a wide variety of flowers and herbs without any single care in the world. His brother, Malfurion, and Tyrande, too entrenched in each other to notice him.

He disposes of his earrings with a bit more force than necessary. “Yeah, I am sure...” He can’t be sure if the sneer on his lips is for the slightly painful tug at his ear, or for the heartbreaking sight of the other couple.

For a moment, he allows his troubled mind to wonder about the irony of it all. When Malfurion and Tyrande’s interest lay on worthless, silly and raw medicinal herbs, Illidan’s own lay on opulence, luxury, on pure beauty; whether if it comes from a woman or from bright jewelry and adornments.

Are those the reasons—his vision of the world, his aspirations, his intended lifestyle—what drove him away from Tyrande, the female he had loved, in the first place? What drove him away from his own brother?  

Yet, how could he possibly know that he had _loved_ Tyrande, or that he still does? From what he’s aware, such an intense feeling as love and caring could never come hand by hand with the tang of resentment and disappointment that now tugs at his chest. And if he had known that having Tyrande’s heart could separate him from his sibling in some way…

Thousands of questions and wonderings invade Illidan’s mind, the taste of bitterness heavy on his throat. Worst of all, he’s in the worst place to be pondering about such things. The crowd is too loud, he didn’t even have enough wine to loosen himself, and he can’t find a good distraction that can keep his head from spinning and assault him with more questions.

But—surprisingly—when a delicate hand is placed over his cheek, gently turning his face down, Illidan finds a way to return to the present time when his gaze finds the ever so soothing eyes of his companion. For the look of her eyes, he notices that she’s, somehow, aware of his disturbance.

“We made a vow, remember?” Mylenne’s disguised lips show a small, comforting smile, making the deep creases of his forehead to relax and soften a little. “We promised that we would at least _try_ to enjoy this festival.” A tired sigh escapes Illidan’s lips at the reminder, yet it’s not enough to lift his spirits. “Come on, let us go somewhere else.”

With a remarkable ease, she finds his hand and laces her fingers with his before pulling him along, apparently deciding to lead the way. The merchant yells something at them and Mylenne quickly throws a small pouch of gold coins at him from her hidden pocket before making their retreat. He remains silent and follows her around the corner, the fingers of his free hand still holding the pair of azure earrings. But instead of giving them to their owner, Illidan saves the jewels on one pocket of his loose jacket, preferably for another moment.

And there it goes, another one for the pile of savings of the ‘for later’ ponderings. 

A pleasant intake of breath coming from his partner takes Illidan out of his reverie once they enter the plaza, Mylenne stopping short and almost making him bump her. The crowd is a little thicker than on the Commons, but thanks to his stature he can clearly admire the scene displayed before them. 

Paper lanterns shaped like moons and stars glitter over the plaza, floating above them with the soft purplish-blue mist of magic, circling around a wide marbled space that the locals have apparently decided to place as a dance floor. Females and children living in the surrounding houses lean out of their windows to toss multicolored ribbons to the kaldorei below, lutes and drums pounding around the happy and relaxed chattering from the dancers.

After her stupor, Mylenne heads to her right, a hand still gripping his and attempting to guide him near some feasting and drinking tables. Close to the corner, a couple of Moon Guard members have already taken a table for themselves—the ever intolerable Officer Latosius, doing what Illidan believes to be the most pitiful attempt for a courtship on a noble Lady, conjuring small arcane orbs to twirl around the female.

For a moment, he glances at Latosius’ companion, Officer Hargo’then, which appears to make his best to maintain a stoic face after such display. But then, Illidan doesn’t feel up to mingle with them—and that feels to be the inevitable thing to do if Mylenne insists with her apparent idea of getting more wine to drink.

And definitely seems to be the worst idea when he notices Hargo’then and his pale golden eyes subtly roaming over Mylenne’s swaying hips.

So it is then when he stops in his tracks, an annoying grunt escaping his lips as he gently pulls at Mylenne’s arm, making her face him. “What? You grew tired of wine already?” She wonders, looking innocent, almost as if she’s unaware of the attention she’s getting.

Just like the paper lanterns floating around them, a better idea hovers on Illidan’s mind. Coincidentally, it gets to be the exact moment when the musicians switch into a new melody. “Come on,” He nods to the dance floor, a dashing smile crossing his lips as he takes her other hand in his.  

Her silver eyes widen with his suggestion, a small blush creeping up her neck. “Oh, err, Illidan…” Mylenne tries to resist at first, embarrassment narrowing her flustered cheeks. “I do not believe it is a good—“

But he keeps dragging her with him. “I believe you said we should ‘try to enjoy the festival’,” Illidan insists, his amused grin widening when she doesn’t offer much resistance to his invitation. Walking backward, he opts for a small teasing. “Or are you _that_ shy? Do not worry then, you just happen to have a good partner for this,”

One of her eyebrows lifts suggestively, her attitude more relaxed and playful as they keep slowly approaching to the dance floor. “Oh, is that it?” Her mouth curls into a half smirk, eyes gleaming in amusement. “I should warn you of my… _particular_ skills at dancing.”

The barely challenging look she directs at him does a funny thing with his insides, almost making him stumble on his way. “So, you think you can keep up with me?” He quickly recovers, noticing he just had triggered something pretty much interesting. “Allow me to have my doubts; I just have not found anybody certainly able to…”

When the woman imitates his sly smirk, he knows he can’t be any more delighted. “I rather think you will have trouble keeping up with _me_ ,” Mylenne’s voice shifts into a sultry tone, a teasing long finger climbing up his chest, making his muscles clench in its way.

It gets better when he directs a barely burning stare at her, ready to devour her with only his eyes… and her smirk grows wider. Her finger stops right on the crook between his collarbones before abandoning its touch, teasingly brushing his arm as she walks past him.

Is she aware that it can be almost _dangerous_ to challenge him like that?

A dark-skinned hand instantly snatches her wrist, his chest pressing onto her back and pulling her close before she walks away. “Oh, that is _bold_ of you,” He whispers in her ear, using that seductive low voice he’s aware of having its pleasant effects on females.

On its way to find her hip with his free hand, she suddenly turns around, a wild gleaming on her bright silver eyes. “Mmh, is it?” She chuckles low, easily freeing from his grip. She must probably know how tantalizing she may be for the swaying of her hips, yet she never stops doing so, taunting him with her gaze as she slowly steps away from his grasp.

It takes a mere instant for Illidan to reach her, sending her spinning and taking the center of the dance floor. It gets to be a very easy task to claim a large spot for themselves as he makes her spin once more, her long skirt waving and one of her arms arched elegantly.

As they step into the rhythm, Illidan slowly comes to the realization that he’s falling into a trap. Both of them move gracefully, their steps always matching the other, but every time he attempts to hold her waist or one of her arms, she easily breaks free of his grasp, swaying and circling him.

She certainly is a very skilled dancer, but he’ll be damned before falling behind. He has a reputation to maintain, after all.

For the rest of the song he pretends to not look for her, allowing her to take the lead and fall into the comfort of only their closeness; only their magical aura brushing and mingling with the other as they twirl and circle each other.

Barely joined with the ghost touch of their raised palms, Illidan’s fingers twitch and ache to enclose on her hand, but he’ll not risk ruining the game—not even when Mylenne incites him with a mischievous gaze to _exactly_ do so—instead curling his other hand into a fist, placed on the small of his back.

She is slippery, moving with the grace of a saber, and behind that alluring cascade of cerulean hair and sky-blue skirt he can’t really take his gaze away from, he’s too much aware that all eyes are on her. The rest of the dance floor is a heavy blur of several faces, yet he can recognize the flash of bright green from Malfurion, walking around the entrance of the plaza, or the cobalt mane—pretty similar to his own, but way shorter—from Hargo’then. Even Officer Latosius had apparently found another way to entertain himself, not even bothering to hide his eyes following Mylenne’s hips or her arms when they arch above her head.

Just a few minutes before the song coming to an end, Mylenne’s gaze lingers on some point behind his shoulder, and Illidan also notices that all eyes are on him as well—mostly females. For a mere moment she slightly falters on her steps, suddenly too distracted to maintain her perfect elegance and sending a death glare to a couple of young maidens close to his position, sharp teeth bare and fire on her eyes.

Illidan’s smile can’t get any wider, the amount of events displayed before his eyes too pleasurable that it literally gets into his skin—his aura, flaring with delight in soft purplish-blue waves.

So, he finds the gap in her planned machinations, taking the advantage of her distraction and grasping her wrist before sending her spinning one, two, three times. The newfound touch sends a small shockwave through his fingers—beginning on his palm, traveling to his arm and spreading on his chest—and judging by the small intake of breath, Mylenne appears to be having the same sensation running through her.  

Still, she beams at him, her face brightening when he pulls her against his chest, bringing them inches apart from each other. And right when the last note of the flutes are played, he bends her back to rest on his flexed knee, holding her body with a palm on her upper back and their joined hands close to the back of his head.

The silence grows thick at their closeness, the pounding from the drums replaced with the wild hammering of his heart, filling his ears and covering the noisy chattering from the crowd around them. But despite the previous events, he can’t seem to find a more delighting scene as her; chest heaving, cheeks flustered, bright silver eyes in which he can see his own reflection.

Yet the pleased smile he directs at her is for entirely different reasons; because, after this game of taunts, sways, and provocations, he finally has her in his arms. And that’s the only thing that could satisfy him more than the sight of her stunning beauty.

Illidan can’t entirely believe that they only needed a dance for her shyness to slip away, but then, he just voices his thoughts before the music starts once more. “You are a box full of surprises, do you know that?”

The soothing melody of a harp reaches his ears as he straightens her back, yet reluctant to let her go, a hand slipping around her waist. “You think? Even when all I do is get you into trouble?” Mylenne wonders with a light tone, her fingers reaching the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

“If you keep amazing me like you just did, then I do not mind getting some more,” He confesses, golden eyes gleaming with many promises behind his piercing gaze. “You really are a good dancer, I am genuinely surprised…”

Mylenne laughs at that, wholeheartedly, the music of her voice going straight to his very core. “And you thought you were the master of everything, Illidan?” Her laughter turns into a low, teasing chuckle, but he allows that as she leans her body against his chest. “Remind me then on insisting you further the next time.”

Her last words echo in his brain. _The next time, the next time..._

As they dance and sway to the slow music, his brain easily starts to ponder about their next possible encounters, for he’s _definitely_ looking forward to seeing her again. Should he take her hunting? Make their way into some not-so-crowded taverns seems to be a nice idea as well, given her liking to Moonberry wine. Does she prefer the opulence, the bright marble and never-ending activity of Suramar’s streets or does she feel more at ease on the outskirts, basking in the moonlight kissing her skin and the stillness of the forest?

He certainly can’t be more pleased when she leans further in his arms, her temple resting on his shoulder, sighing deeply and apparently uncaring of the crowd who might be watching them. For such a peculiar female as Mylenne, she just seemed to have fallen for his charms just as quick as the rest—a feat Illidan finds both remarkable and odd, as he had surely expected for her to be more… challenging.

“Psst, Lid…” A voice that doesn’t belong to the woman in his arms takes him by surprise. “Lid… _Stormrage!_ ” They hiss at him, making him flinch for a bare moment.

An annoyed growl escapes his lips as he looks behind his shoulder. Who dares to disturb them in that precious moment? Can’t he and his partner have a single minute in peace, _for once_? He certainly never had such a complicated courtship in ages, why—

 _Did you just say_ courtship _, Stormrage?_

But he can’t find a moment to ponder about it as Mylenne raises her head and follows his gaze. It gets to be more difficult when the speaker enters his line of sight, revealing a familiar kaldorei dressed in Moon Guard robes. “Lothrius? I thought you were at the Stronghold…” Illidan says, blinking in surprise.

Lothrius Mooncaller comes closer to them, still dancing and swaying with his partner—a female from the Sisterhood, if her robes are of any indication—with a subtle nonchalance. “I just escaped,” He shrugs Illidan’s comment away, but then he nods past him and Mylenne, brows rising in warning, “Doesn’t matter now, what matters is that the _hurricane_ is coming. To your right,”

He can only tilt his head for a moment and blink twice, confused, before following Lothrius’ advice. The sight displayed before him leaves him stunned, his steps faltering. Syrana—his friend and the woman that Illidan had completely forgotten about after finding Mylenne a couple of hours ago—is storming in their direction, her face constricted in sheer rage, fists slightly glowing at her sides.

It takes a humming noise coming from Mylenne for him to snap out of his sudden stupor. “Oh, _arane…_ ” Illidan mutters, realization dawning on him, making him want to smack himself for his stupidity.

Of course, it could be… troublesome—for the lack of a better word—for Syrana to see the disguise he applied to Mylenne; but then, Illidan had totally forgotten about her. And judging by the way his friend is now rushing to him, her golden eyes glowing with anger, he seems to be a moment away from dealing with the consequences.

Fortunately, Lothrius is there to save him—and apparently willing to do so, as he places a heavy hand on Illidan’s shoulder, pushing him away and stepping between him and the enraged navy-haired woman closing in. “You have it bad, my friend,” He says, remarking the obvious, “But don’t worry, I’ll cover you.”

He accepts Lothrius’ offer without hesitation, grabbing a very confused Mylenne by the hand and pulling her away with him. “How much?” He just says behind his shoulder while he locks eyes with the female beside him, sending her a silent plea with his gaze only.

“Next week’s shift is on you,” That gets an annoyed groan from Illidan—the price of his escaping doesn’t seem to be cheap at all. But then, he _really_ wants to avoid another unpleasant situation; he had already reached the end of his tolerance after seeing his brother.

“Deal,” Illidan snarls back, not really having another choice, and tugs at Mylenne’s hand, attempting to blend in with the crowd as he hunches down his head to keep his cobalt mane from being spotted. As he gets on eye level with his partner—her silver eyes half amused, half surprised—he then says, “How about us getting out of here?”

“It was not enough with our last sprint, was it?” Mylenne replies in a mocking tone, yet she doesn’t seem to complain about it, lacing her fingers with his and barely holding a cackle from escaping her lips.

So, once more, they are on the run, this time with their roles reversed as she follows his lead—and this time without her beautiful face soaked in sad tears. Instead, they laugh it off as they go, fleeing like two younglings who had just escaped from school, looking for some fun—and some trouble—elsewhere.

“I’ll feed you to the hippogryphs, Stormrage!” It’s the last he hears from Syrana as they turn around the corner, returning to the Harbor and to when he and Mylenne had their first encounter in that crazy, _utterly crazy_ night.

* * *

Illidan doesn’t know where Mylenne got _that_ amount of money from, but as they climb into a boat and take their way through the Suramar Bay, he certainly isn’t up to complain about the whole luxury of it. A wooden cask is placed on the far end of the boat, a pleased hum giving way through his lips as he finds a bottle of Nightpear cider, bread and Moonberry jam inside the cask.  

The Mother Moon is soon coming to rest, the last of her silver-white rays reflecting on the calm waters as they go by, with Mylenne resting her back in one corner of the boat, basking in the landscape displayed before them.

“It seems that… _this_ has turned out to be a total inconvenience,” She says softly, her adrenaline from their previous sprint already washed off. Illidan remains silent, pouring two glasses of cider for them, just as calm and quiet as the sea. “Well, then? Are you going to tell me who… uhm, who I am?”

He sits beside her, taking precious care in not brushing her shoulder with his own, giving her some personal space. “My friend’s sister, Shalasyr Starweave. Of course, Syrana probably thought I was dancing with her,” He explains after sighing tiredly, “I apologize for not telling you sooner; in my defense, she was the most logical female to hold on to when I was channeling my spell.”

Her elegant eyebrows narrow into a frown, taking a moment of silence while sipping her cider, apparently pondering over what he says. “Logical? I don’t understand. You just were thinking about her?” Her question gives way with a hint of disbelief—almost a hint of _jealousy_ if Illidan didn’t know better.

Yet it’s not a really good moment to ponder about Mylenne’s thoughts on the subject, although he does notice her slipping into a more informal speech, “Not exactly. Actually, I was thinking about her _hair_.” He adds with a tilt of his head and then takes a moment by only tasting the cider on his tongue, unconsciously looking for some liquid courage. “Well, she’s one of the few women I know with long hair just as you, so…”

His throat bobs as he avoids her soft gaze, staring at the floor of the boat almost in astonishment. He hardly can’t believe himself—he just had let it slip his liking for long hair, it’s not that he’d confessed a terrible crime. But then, why is he feeling so… worried? So nervous about what she may think of him?

Mylenne’s voice is measured and careful when she breaks the silence. “That would be Shalasyr, me… and Priestess Tyrande.” She easily assumes, daring a glance at him through the corner of her silver eyes.

Illidan can’t keep a long, tiresome groan from escaping his throat, head lolling and falling to rest not-so-gently on the wooden corner of the boat, eyes shutting close. Does it all have to lead to Tyrande, eventually? He doesn’t even want to bring her to the conversation, irritation coursing right through him and tensing his muscles, just like every time he evokes the memory of the navy-haired woman.

But then, a deep wave of respite washes over him as a small, delicate hand brushes over his knee, “Alright, alright, I take that back,” Mylenne concedes with a kindhearted tone, her voice so tender that his golden eyes flutter open instantly, looking at her out of sheer curiosity. She hesitates for a moment, but her gaze gleams playfully as she next adds, “… _Lid._ ”

His eyes blow wide, gasping exaggeratedly and in half mocking as he holds a hand to his chest, pretending to be hurt—yet taking her comment as it is: A way out. “Oh, you didn’t just call me—“

The woman chuckles at his reaction, leaning to the side and facing him properly. “Lid? But I like it,” A dashing smile follows her words, her face softening as he relaxes beside her once more, “Sounds cute,”

“No, _you_ are,” Illidan says, showing her how he really means it as he imitates her pose, his golden gaze open and honest.

Past the horizon, the first rays of sunlight are showing, peaking above the sea and caressing her skin in its way to the surface. His fingertips, as if having a life of its own, dare to travel to her bare shoulder, tracing the route that the warm rays leave behind—from the crook of her neck to her curved jawline, moving in a straight line to her temple.

She shivers with his gentle touch, eyes fluttering close and cheeks blushing, yet she doesn’t move nor flinches away. As if involuntarily, she leans her cheek into his palm when he cups her face, a longing sigh escaping her lips when his hand starts to glow with magic. Her long mane waves like a flag, shades of violet slowly washing away the cerulean as her disguise starts to fade. The lavender tint of her skin spreads like spider webs, revealing the violet markings on her face and unveiling the real woman underneath his spell.

His throat goes dry with the stunning sight of her transformation—and right when the sun starts to show, Lily fades away with the remnants of the night, Mylenne taking her rightful place.

“Did I just say cute?” Illidan breathes, not really finding his voice. “I must take that back, for I think you’re _beautiful_.”

Her lips curve into a dear smile, silver eyes fluttering open, instantly finding his, “Flattery seems to get you anywhere,” She keeps the same low voice as him, the words barely slurring—if in reaction to his magic or for the cider finally having its effects on her, Illidan may never know.

“I only tell what my eyes can see… _Mylie_ ,” The banter comes in its own accord, not really meaning it at first. But then, she suddenly bursts into laughter and a grin takes place over his mouth, unable to hide it even as he briefly bites his lower lip.

They spend another hour on the boat, both of them a little tipsy from the Nightpear cider, shoving some mouthfuls of bread while they talk about everything and nothing at all. Mylenne tells him that it’s been only a year since she started her initiation at the Temple of Elune—barely a blink for such a long-lived race as theirs—and he remarks that it’s been twenty years since he first placed a foot on the Moon Guard Stronghold. She comments about her uncle’s adventures around the continent, yet never brings the rest of her family to the conversation, just as he neither brings Malfurion.

It’s almost morning when the boat reaches its final parade, back on the Harbor once more. He has to half-carry her to the ground, a long arm encircling her waist as they drop off, laughing wholeheartedly at their slight dizziness. Fortunately, not many people are left at that time of the day, allowing Mylenne to be more relaxed as she rests her cheek on the head of his shoulder.

As much as he doesn’t want the night to end, they inevitably reach the bridge that leads him to Silgryn’s temporary place—the very same spot from when they first found each other, too many hours ago. “I can walk you to your home, if you—uhm, if you wish, of course…” Illidan fumbles with his words, wincing when noticing the lame excuse in his voice.

“There is no need,” She only smiles, shaking her head as if attempting to hide her evident blush, hesitate to look at his face when they stop walking.

An awkward moment of silence goes by and Illidan swallows hard, his mind desperately trying to come up with another idea that could make her stay with him a little longer. It is right when his lips part once more that he’s suddenly pulled down, not so gently, her long and nimble arms wrapping him into a tight hug.

 _Careful_ , the small voice of his conscience keeps him on his toes, right on that moment when both her hands travel to rest on the back of his neck. _It only needs a wrong move from you to destroy centuries of hard training, Stormrage. Only a false step and you will ruin everything…_

“Thank you for everything, Illidan.” She whispers to the crook of his neck. The ever so tempting smell of lilies mixed with the acrid scent of her magic fills his nose as he buries it in her hair, the tip brushing the flower still adorning her ear. But, despite the warnings, he feels content with only holding her in his embrace, his hands coming to rest on her small waist.

No matter how hard it may be, how loud that beast within him might growl, ever threatening him to crawl its way out and break loose—because, for all uncertainties, Illidan is absolutely sure about one: He will not harm Mylenne in any way.

He pulls back only to look at her beautiful face, whispering back, “It’s my very pleasure, Myl—“

Both of their pointed ears twitch when they hear some movement at their left, her dazzling smile disappearing just as fast as it came, her neck craning almost violently to catch a glance of the newcomers. Illidan almost startles when he follows her eyes.

On the other side of the bridge, two Black Rook guards are staring at Mylenne, slightly panting as if they have been sprinting only to reach her. “Thank the Goddess you are still around!” One of them says, his dark helmet that obscures the details of his face not really hiding his relief.

Illidan feels how she freezes in his arms, eyes wide and completely still. Yet the second guard is already walking through the bridge to where they stand, making his arm encircle her waist by sheer instinct. Somehow none of them are able to move, Illidan’s jaw tightening when the guards reach the end of the bridge, his magical aura flaring out in its best menacing attempt.

But then, a mere moment later, the Black Rook soldiers just incline their heads to Mylenne. “Your father had been looking for you all night, Lady Stareye. We are assigned to escort you back to him.”

Illidan’s aura fades away like a candle blown out by the wind, jaw falling in sheer astonishment.

Had that man just called her… _Lady Stareye?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, [Dreams of Azure](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8777506) is already here! Go check it out if you're interested in some more background from Illidan :D


	11. Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next to the gloomy eyes of her uncle, she dares to glance at the cobalt-haired kaldorei for one last time, before the transport turns around the corner of the street. Even from streets away, Illidan’s stare never wavers, his gaze barely scorching her from the inside out with its intensity, golden eyes filled with indignation and disappointment.
> 
> And it’s a heartbreaking sight that might as well be haunting Mylenne for _decades_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies for the delay - depression, RL stuff and holidays came crashing down altogether, I barely found the strength to write this part.   
> Well, it's that and what this chapter contains; I believe some warnings for sensitive content (such as depressive thoughts and angst) are mandatory. It had been pretty hard for me, given that it kinda hits home with some things, so... yep, I just said it. 
> 
> Oh, but there are a lot of new characters and more Highborne background! Any questions, you only need to ask :)

** Darnassian: **

**An’da:** Father.

**Min’da:** Mother.

**Vashj’ir:** One of the great Highborne cities. 

**Elun’dris** : “The Eye of Elune”, capital city of the kaldorei empire.

**Ishnu-alah** : “Good fortune to you.” A greeting.

* * *

** Stareye **

“Your father had been looking for you all night, Lady Stareye. We are assigned to escort you back to him.” The Black Rook soldier explains, his head still bowed to her, the very picture of respect and duty.

Her lower lip trembles just as the man holding her let his shoulders and arms fall down like heavy rocks, shock narrowing his handsome face. _No, no. It was not supposed to be this way. He was not supposed to find out like this…_

Illidan stares at her as if it’s the first time he sees her in his life, and Mylenne can swear she can see the amount of questions running in his head, flashing through his golden and astonished gaze. He’s still—so very still—only his lips moving, mouthing her family name over and over as if he can’t possibly believe the word to be related to her.

“Please, don’t panic right about now,” She whispers, words coming out in a rush and only for him to hear, yet It sounds as if _she_ is the one panicking. His mouth contorts into a sneer, thick eyebrows frowning hard, looking ready to dismiss her assumptions.

But one of the soldiers clears his throat. “Lady Stareye, morning is barely upon us. I am afraid we must insist,” He says, outstretching a careful gloved hand to her, his tone apologetic yet not accepting a refusal. She cringes once more with the mention of her family name just as Illidan does.

“Could you, _at the very least_ , give us a moment?” Illidan sneers with clenched teeth, irritation clear as rain, threat laced in his deep baritone voice. Mylenne steals a glance at his face, noticing the dangerous glowing of his golden eyes for the second time in that night.

And a very powerful display of his magic it must be, if she’s capable of seeing that purplish-blue glowing with her lesser sights. 

She reaches for him, attempting to soothe his sudden anger, but the guards don’t take it as a safe movement and they both reach for their swords, thick tension almost palpable in the air. Her heart races wildly with apprehension, yet she wouldn’t bet on Illidan—as well-skilled in the arts of the arcane as he may be—successfully knocking two veteran guards if the worst situation came to happen.

Mostly, she wouldn’t bet on anything at all, not after him abruptly finding of her noble status and family name.

“Please, there is no need for this,” Her trembling voice is a silver lining cutting down the tense silence, but she insists on keeping a fight from starting as she takes a step forward, her back to Illidan and her palms in the air—the universal sign of submission. “My partner was just about to leave. I will go and meet my father now.”

She knows the Black Rook guards are only trying to do their jobs, and she doesn’t blame them for that, but deep down Mylenne is also aware that she’s trying to keep the inevitable from happening—finally facing her father… and his wrath for rebelling him once more.

“Mylenne—!” Illidan protests behind her, almost as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Almost as if he can’t _acknowledge_ her—as if she suddenly turned out to be a different woman rather than the one that shared a whole night with him.

And when she looks behind her shoulder, something clenches inside her chest, the sight breaking her heart into a hundred pieces. For when her eyes locks on his golden ones, his unwavering gaze and his thick brows are narrowed hard; sharp, sheer _betrayal_ plastered on his handsome face.

She can’t even say goodbye to him after seeing him like that; the hand that previously attempted to brush his arm falling down heavily to the side, feeling disheartened, disillusioned, just as her wishes, her hopes of…

_Hopes of what? You just_ lied _to him, you fool, what else could you possibly expect from him? A goodbye kiss? A promise of seeing him again?_

A weak sigh escapes her lips with the voice of Maiev in her mind, swallowing a lump that threatens to close her throat, turning away from the cobalt-haired man before he can notice the dejected tears forming in her eyes.

_He just did as much for you, and certainly for free, now stop bothering him_ , the tender voice of Silgryn assaults her mind, attempting for her to see reason. _It was good while it lasted, sweetie, but now it’s time to face the music._

The soldiers move to the side, allowing her to pass, and as she walks away from Illidan she focuses on bracing herself for what’s about to come, thoughts getting clearer and mind bolstering with every step she takes. The guards flank her sides and she does her best to shut down her ears—or, at the very least, _pretend_ to not be hearing the angry fuming of the man she’s leaving behind.

_It is better this way_ , she tries to convince herself. _He had already expressed his disinterest in noble ladies, anyway. I shouldn’t be bothering him further…_

An opulent and covered litter, big enough to carry four passengers, appears before her as she gets close to the corner of the street, its poles void of bearers and floating softly above purplish mists—probably the only magical source that the mighty Lord Desdel Stareye care to tolerate so close to him, given his known aversion for the arcane.

Lord Stareye doesn’t even care to look at her as he points to a free spot inside the transport with his chin, his lips pursed just as tight as his midnight black mane, tied in a bun. She knows better than to defy him at that moment, quickly entering the litter and taking a seat in front of him, not daring to meet his gaze just yet.

She’s about to greet him, or at least attempt to soothe his evident foul mood somehow, but Desdel is quick in speaking first—always the one looking forward to having the upper hand. “It’s already sunrise...” He grumbles, pointing out the obvious, and Mylenne can only try not to flinch with the harsh sound of his voice, only a thin hum acknowledging his comment.

His breath brushes her face and the strong smell of distilled Nightwine reaches her nose; he appears to be drunk already—although the fact doesn’t surprise her, not by a long shot.

“I’m here now, _An’da._ I…” Mylenne says, her voice soft yet careful, her eyes never reaching his face as the litter start moving.

However, she never gets to finish her sentence when he growls deeply, a calloused hand abruptly reaching her violet hair. “ _An’da_ …!” She gulps while Desdel grabs some chunks of her mane, pulling down and pushing her head as well with the movement. “ _An’da_ , n—wait…”

The woman chokes her words down her throat as Lord Stareye tears the translucent dusk lily off her hair, pulling off some locks tangled in his fingers in the process. “Bah! As if your choice of clothing isn’t _disgusting_ enough,” He snarls, throwing the flower out of the window and shaking his fingers, his face looking as if he had touched something downright repulsive.

Her silver eyes open wide in shock, gleaming with unshed tears. With a hard intake of breath—only enough to keep her tears from falling—Mylenne dares leaning her head out of the window, watching the flower flying away with the soft gust of the morning wind; the last remaining memory of that lovely night, even despite some unfortunate events.

The dear token she had from the handsome Illidan Stormrage… and probably the _only_ gift she will ever have from him. Even that gets to be ripped apart from her.

As if her heart isn’t utterly broken already.

The magical flower lands softly at another male’s feet—the kind Vanthir, uncle Silgryn’s friend—and he picks it up without much hesitation, cradling it in his hands with the same tender care as Mylenne had done when she first got it. Behind the male’s shoulder, a resolute Silgryn is holding Illidan by his arms, violet brows frowning hard and pinning him in place.

Next to the gloomy eyes of her uncle, she dares to glance at the cobalt-haired kaldorei for one last time, before the transport turns around the corner of the street. Even from streets away, Illidan’s stare never wavers, his gaze barely scorching her from the inside out with its intensity, golden eyes filled with indignation and disappointment.

And it’s a heartbreaking sight that might as well be haunting Mylenne for _decades_.

* * *

For the rest of the trip, Mylenne remains silent, holding down her tears and keeping sobs from escaping her mouth only by the force of her own will. Lord Stareye keeps sneering at her from time to time, yet she knows better than to answer him.

“That’s not a fitting hairstyle for a noble Lady,” He grumbles in a low voice, almost as if he’s talking to himself. However, she never replies, her gaze fixed in no point in particular. “You’re not even wearing your jewelry…”

He keeps talking and grumbling all the way to the Manor, but the woman stops listening eventually, too entrenched in her own troubled thoughts to focus on her father’s remarks and his endless disappointment of a daughter.

No matter how much she tries, she can’t stop thinking about Illidan and his intense gaze—golden eyes burning into her mind. She should have told him her name, shouldn’t have opted to hide her identity from him only for her own despise towards her social class; only for _fear_ of what he may think of her.

For a mere moment, she wants to laugh at the irony of it all, for—somehow and in some way she can’t really point of when—the beguiler has now become the beguiled. But she can’t be amused by the thought, not really, not when the guilt tastes so bitter in her throat, threatening to break her composure and burst into tears at any moment.

When they reach the Stareye Manor the Black Rook guards are nowhere to be seen, but she doesn’t waste her time pondering about when they left. It’s useless, anyway—for with or without company, Desdel always does what he pleases, and nobody ever dares to either retort or contradict his actions.

A mighty high-ranked warrior from the Black Rook order, Lord of one of the most influential noble Houses in Suramar City, vassals of the Great House of Lunastre and a Highborne through and through. Anyone who dares to stand against Desdel Stareye or even get in his way might as well be suicidal.

And Mylenne knows that better than anybody.

His servants stand aside when he places a foot inside the Manor, their heads down and silence only shattered by the sound of his leather boots over the expensive carpet. Desdel is quick in throwing his coat to the closest one and dismissing them with a sharp wave of his free hand, clearly not needing of their services for the moment. Mylenne keeps silent behind him, but she notices through the corner of her eye that the servants are also quicker in fleeing out of his sight.

Just as the guards that previously escorted her, she either can’t blame them for their obedience. But oh, how she wishes for someone to distract her father somehow, if only for a minute, so she can be left alone and forgotten. Preferably more than a minute, so she can work her way out and stay far apart from that sheer ire that never abandons her father’s sharp, hard gaze.

But then, right when they are away from privy eyes and ears, Lord Desdel grips her bare arm, grumbling low under his breath as he pushes her up the marble stairs, heading to the bedrooms. Mylenne groans in pain with his tight hold, trying to lift the hem of her skirt with her free hand as she climbs two steps at the time, doing her best to keep up with him.

Walking around the hallway that directs to her bedroom, Lord Stareye tugs at her arm as he forcefully opens the door. “ _An’da_ , y—you’re hurting me…” She knows it’s useless, that her words always fall on deaf ears, but she can’t help with her pleading—with her hoping that, maybe this time, he may see some reason.

But he doesn’t— _he never did, he never does_ —instead, he throws her into the room without further ado. Next, her cheek gets slapped, shutting down all possible pleas. “At least dispose of those robes before daring talking to me. You look like a _low whore,_ ” Desdel snarls, giving her a disgusted look as he returns to the hallway. “You will come out dressed as a proper Lady. Otherwise… don’t come out at all.”

And then he slams the door shut, leaving her with her misery—a wounded bird returning to its cage.

For a couple of minutes—or hours, she may never know—Mylenne only stays still in the middle of the bedroom, one hand twitching when the blood rushes freely through the veins of her arm once more. Four dark purple bruises are starting to show on her forearm and her cheek stings, probably the best announcement of Desdel Stareye’s return.

Everything she does, he breaks it apart. Wherever she goes, he’s waiting at the end of the road for her. Always imminent, always looming, a midnight black saber concealed by the dark forest, patiently waiting for her next move to pounce on her.

Where once Aedriel Stareye had stood, now Mylenne is the one placed in her stead, like a puppet on strings, only required to dance before him until he’s pleased. Like meat for crows, with expensive clothes and a fake smile on her face, only needed to attend to their guests or associate with whatever perfumed noble they happened to encounter, right until he gets satisfied and finds a better thing to amuse himself with. Like drinking, or spend a day or two at his favorite brothel.

When the first tear escapes her eyes, Mylenne can’t contain the rest of them much further, flooding like a river and soaking her face. But when she should feel thankful to be left alone in the privacy of her room, when she should feel relieved and glad to have a moment for herself, a moment of peace, she instead feels… caged.

Sheer sorrow grips her throat like a vice, but she doesn’t wail nor scream, doesn’t make a single noise as her whole body trembles with her sobs.

_I have been a fool… such a fool to think I could have a life of my own._  

Her hands close into fists, purplish-blue waves of magic flaring out and clawing their way out of her skin—strong and desperate, almost as if a part of her being is attempting to escape from their own impending fate. The entire room starts to shake like if struck by an earthquake, furniture levitating in the wake of the intense emotions flooding through her.

Books from her shelves, leather shoes, some trinkets, and even a lamp get floating around her, pulled along with dark tendrils of purplish energy. Everything vibrates— _she_ vibrates—and she’s like a living bomb, her magic pulsating and about to explode at any moment…

_I will always be caged._

Until a sob escapes her mouth, deep and filled with unfathomable sorrow, right from the bottom of her very core—so deep that the sound breaks the low-frequencies of her magical expelling like a sharp knife, her most intense emotions resurfacing.

All the objects in the room fall down with a loud _thump_ , just as her body slumps down to her bed, knees wobbling and muscles trembling with exhaustion.

_No matter how much I try, I will never be free._ Min’da _never could, so how could I?_

She feels so overwhelmed by everything—her feelings, her thoughts, her previous struggles, her own body—so she lets it all go, burying her face in her pillow to muffle her sobs.

_When I thought my friends would be able to help, I dragged them into the fray instead. Now Jarod is bound to me and Maiev has her hands tied—forced to watch as her brother and I are used as puppets for my father’s pleasure._

With all the strength she can muster, she allows her tears and her sobs to wash away all she held for so long; decades of running away, centuries of denial, two thousand years of struggles and oppression.

_What’s the sense of anything when I know that everything always ends up like this? What’s the sense of trying, of hoping for something to be different? Nothing changed after_ Min’da _left… nothing will ever change._

Her loved ones cling to her mind like pictures before being washed off with the rest of her tears. Her mother Aedriel, smiling at her with the sun rays caressing her face, perched on a branch of a big tree, always gazing at the forest. Jarod and Maiev hunting along in the wilderness, laughing and adjusting the saddle of Rak’shareh to keep her from falling off her new cub. The sweet, so sweet Sister Thania singing a prayer to the Goddess with her, their voices echoing happily as they are washed by the soft moonlight.

At last, her mind drifts to Illidan Stormrage and those stunning golden eyes of his, adorned in shades of amber and yellow—his gaze fixed on hers and filled with awe, as if he’s looking at a gift from the very Goddess.

“Oh, Illidan,” Mylenne cries to her pillow, her voice rough, like sand running down her throat. “I am so, so sorry…” But no matter how much she tries, every memory fades away except his golden gaze, scorching her from the inside out, burning and flaring with disappointment.

_It is better this way. I shouldn’t have met him at all, he’s better off without me. I can’t give him anything but trouble and pain…_

All that’s left before drifting into exhausted sleep is that fire in his eyes, golden fire turning everything into ash. And—at long last—Mylenne finally gives up, all that remained of her hope gone within the last of her tears.  

* * *

**Two months later.**

The fireplace may be burning for half the night, yet Mylenne still feels her hands cold, her silver eyes only glinting thanks to the reflection of the fire on her face. The servants keep coming and going, attending to Lord Stareye’s never-ending requests, but she doesn’t pay attention to them or to her father—placed as usual on the head of the large table, neck deep on a big pile of scrolls and parchments which cover a large part of the table’s surface.

Far away—almost as if coming from the other side of a mountain—a male voice calls for her, but she doesn’t answer, burying deeper in her armchair, her gaze fixed on the flickering fire before her.

The fire had turned out to be the bare source of light she had seen for the last two months, although its warmth hadn’t been a nice replacement for the bright Moon at night. However, she hasn’t found a good reason to come out of the Stareye Manor all those nights—for all the good that the bright moonlight may do for her health, the Goddess’ light had stopped soothing her mind and soul as she used to.

Eventually, all the reasons and motivations to come outside had disappeared, one by one. Jarod hadn’t been around the city; too busy with his patrols and taking Lord Stareye’s shifts to have some time to spend on Suramar. From Maiev, Mylenne didn’t get any recent news, but she figured that her friend may be busy as well, probably filling more than the decent amount of paperwork and continuing with her basic training before heading to Hajiri with the Sentinels.

Her uncle hadn’t made an appearance either, not even sent a letter, but the woman knows that it’s the best for Silgryn to stay out of her father’s sight. As the third remaining member of House Stareye, Desdel couldn’t take his brother-in-law as anything but a threat, a man he can’t control or place wherever he wants to in the way he does with her.

Besides, Silgryn had already faced Desdel’s wrath once or twice, while her mother, Aedriel, still had a place in the family. No matter how much his niece would need of him, Silgryn’s loyalty will always remain with his long-lost sister—as well as Aedriel’s secrets.

But then, as nights went by, Mylenne got tired of thinking about them or even missing their company; for every time her thoughts drifted to the Shadowsong siblings or her friends on the Temple, a sharp surge of pain and longing followed her memories of them. So, she spent her nights in isolation, occupying herself in pleasing Lord Stareye’s demands, looking pretty and cordial when visitors arrived at the Manor, her heart growing numb within each night passing.

“Bah! Are you even listening?” Lord Stareye grumbles from his usual spot, a couple of meters ahead of the fireplace. Lots of piles of parchments lay before him, yet he always manages to not stain his expensive gloves with ink.

“Of course, _An’da_ ,” Mylenne half-lies—she had listened to some musings about Jarod, but nothing further than that, probably the usual praise of him. “And no, I’m not aware if Jarod had been already considered to be promoted to Lieutenant-Commander.”

She doesn’t look at him but, from her periphery, she can see how her father shifts on his spot, growing frustrated within each second. “Of course you’re not. As if you can be useful at _something_ ,” He sighs in deep disappointment, making an effort of finishing the letter he’s writing—to whom, Mylenne will never know. “I sent you to the Temple to work your way as a Priestess, so you may at least be good at something, and yet you always seem to find a way to be useless.”

She doesn’t flinch with his words, too tired and used to hear to the same offenses for centuries. Useless, unappealing, naïve, silly rebel—she knows how the long list goes. Yet, for the first time in that month, a loud alarm rings on Mylenne’s head.

“ _An’da_ ,” The woman still doesn’t know how to approach the subject without raising suspicion or face Lord Stareye’s ire for, somehow, defy him—yet still, she feels the impending need to try. “It may be… unwise, for us to take Jarod among our family with him being only a Lieutenant. Even for me as not being a Priestess yet. Maybe we… uhm, maybe you should—“

“Do you take me for a fool? I have already considered our options,” Desdel interrupts her, for once regarding her with that dull silver eyes of his. “I’d not be giving you to a lowborn if it weren’t for that being my last choice. Captain Ravencrest doesn’t have a son for you to join with, after all, and the Lords of the vassal Houses of Astravar are already taken as well.”

“What about vassals of Duskmere or Stelleris?” Mylenne wonders, feigning interest in Highborne politics for once. Besides, if it’s all she could do to prevent Jarod from sharing her fate, maybe she should insist. “I believe Thaedris of House Feathersong hasn’t taken a wife yet...”

Yet she knows her plans have failed when Desdel only rolls his eyes at her. “In which century do you live, Mylenne? The Feathersong are vassals of House Duskmere, and Duke Duskmere has allied with the Great House of Stelleris three hundred years ago.” He explains, not hiding his annoyance while rolling his parchment with a little more force than necessary. “Every kaldorei knows that the Stelleris and the Lunastre are rivals.”

She sighs next to her father, aware that she had messed up. It wouldn’t be prudent to declare a joining with rival Houses of Lunastre, she should have considered that. However, no matter how high the stakes are, she can’t bring herself to lament her lack of knowledge on Highborne politics and families.

She barely knows a thing or two about the Great Houses of Suramar—Astravar, Duskmere, Stelleris and Lunastre—and their vassal Houses, but nothing more than what she’d been taught at school. She wants nothing to do with them, anyway, and would rip off her noble family name without hesitation if she had the chance to.

_Lord Jarod Stareye_ , she thinks, repeating the name in her head to see if, in some way, she can get used to it. He will hate it the very first second he gets named—permanently bound with her and, consequently, with Lord Desdel forever. And despite having the choice of not abandoning his family name, it’s not like he will have any say in the matter.

Probably her concerns turned out evident on her face, for then he stands up, not so elegantly, sending her a disappointing look. “I’m growing tired of your ignorance and your never-ending insolence,” Desdel snarls as he seals his parchment before saving it. “I haven’t been working _tirelessly_ all these centuries for you to spit and destroy all I’ve done to maintain our place among the Highborne.”

Three maids are coming her way, one of them holding a dark-silver gown for Mylenne to wear, another carrying the adornments for her hair and ears. The woman can hardly remember which special event awaits them at midnight—although judging only by the amount of jewelry, she guesses they’ll be preparing her to greet a very important guest—but she nods at the maids in acknowledgment regardless; the girls will probably inform her in the dressing room while embellishing her properly.

“Father,” Mylenne insists once more as she rises, turning away from the fireplace. Regarding the way his forehead creases with the sound of her voice, she manages to find a way to continue, “Maybe I should say that Jarod is not… pleased with this arrangement. And while I get your intentions, I think that—“

Then again, she can’t finish what she starts when a pair of enraged, dull silver eyes pin her on her spot, fire blazing in his gaze. “Bah! Who cares about what you _think_?” Lord Stareye spits, taking a threatening step towards her and the maids.

Just as the women beside her, Mylenne can’t hold his gaze for long, cold pain sending a shiver down her spine. He’s right, after all; nobody cares about what she may think, her opinion never held any weight when it comes to her father—and never will around that Manor, regardless, not when she couldn’t even bring herself to feel that place as hers. Even the servants and maids are hired and specially picked by him, and they would obey and respect him as long as they get paid.

“You should thank me for arranging a marriage with Shadowsong instead of loathing me for it!” Desdel barks, waving a hand and dismissing her previous words as if they’re garbage—as if _she_ is garbage. “Who’d look after such a _worthless_ woman as you, anyway? No magic in you to enhance your beauty, no use for healing or leading, you may as well be a useless merchant if it weren’t for you wearing your mother’s family name.”

Everyone stays still as the only man walks away from the table, probably heading for his opulent dressing room. Yet as he opens the door leading to the main hallway, he looks behind his shoulder.

“No, you will be of use—for _once_ —and take Shadowsong as your husband,” He declares, his tone denying any possible objection, “With two Stareye and him so close to earning the rank of Commander, we can lay claim on Black Rook Hold. Duchess Lunastre will be most pleased with that…”

A wicked smile narrows his face as he crosses the distance to the main hall, a long crimson cloak following his tracks, waving gracefully as he retires to the hallway.

* * *

It could all be so easy if she just could _hate_ them, despise the servants, Desdel’s allies, the whole Highborne for their willingness towards Lord Stareye’s way of getting pleased. At least, hate the injustice that’s placed upon noble Ladies such as her—for she’s not, _couldn’t_ be the only one—loathe the invisible chains that, unconsciously, indirectly, reign the lives of the Highborne women.

Or even so, hate the evident lies and deceptions that for millennia were placed upon her people’s ears: That women choose their lifemates, that their place in the world—as for a Priestess, a tailor, a merchant, a warrior—is for when the Mother Moon wishes for them to be, that magic is a gift given by the very Goddess to her most cherished children, used for knowledge, for peace, meant to create a better, greater world for all kaldorei.

But then, such a strong feeling, such a dark sentiment… she can’t even bring herself to hate her father for the nightmare of a life he brings to her. She could say it, yes, like any man would say how nice the moonlight feels over one’s skin when she’s at her peak, yet really, _really_ feeling it—that belongs to a whole other level which Mylenne never really could reach nor acknowledge at all.

“Duchess Aurore is about to arrive,” One of her maids attempts for a conversation, the same one arranging her violet long mane, making braids on the sides of her head and working them up to join the longer, thick one at the back. “It is said that we will be hosting many important members of her court tonight…”

“I am sure you will like Lady Ailen, mistress,” A maid at Mylenne’s right continues with an encouraging tone as she adorns her ears with various amounts of silver jewelry, “I believe she is about your age as well, and just had returned from Vashj’ir. Oh, the tales she must have to tell!” The maid squeals a bit, obviously daydreaming about Lady Ailen’s adventures.

The third of the maids, while concentrated on painting Mylenne’s lilac lips, narrows her eyes to the other woman, brows rising in interest. “Is Lady Ailen an acquaintance of Princess Azsune, then? Why would she be on Vashj’ir otherwise?”

The referred woman clicks her tongue, “I believe you were referring to Princess _Azshara_ , my friend,” The tiny maid corrects with a shaking of her head. “Princess Azsune lives in the capital, Elun’dris, yet a little far from the Well.”

“I could not see how Lady Ailen would be interested in visiting such places… or how wise it is to distract just as easily from helping the mistress,” The woman arranging Mylenne’s hair peers from above her head to scorn the other women. “Now, hurry up, Bara, Loratha! Lady Mylenne needs to be _stunning_ tonight!”

Mylenne stops following the trail of the conversation after a while—too many mentions of perfumed Lords and Ladies could only do as much—making a great effort of not looking at her own reflection in the mirror before her. She’s quite aware of what she’d see if she dares to, yet she can’t bring herself to care about it.

Even less so when the maids are there _precisely_ to take care of covering any sort of imperfection that she may have.

And that’s how, half an hour later, she ends up completely embellished. From wearing that dark-silver gown—with long sleeves that help in covering the bruises on her arms—to having simple beauty spells applied on her lavender face to make up for the dark bags under her eyes. She doesn’t complain about the extra pressure on her corset—with one of the maids excusing it because of her loss of weight—nor about the heavy jewelry she wears while on her way to the dining room.

At the very least, the physical extra weight helps in balancing out the emptiness inside her.

Lord Stareye is already greeting their guests of that night when Mylenne comes down the stairs, bowing in that much-practiced way of his and kissing the outstretched hand of a Highborne Lady who stands—face stoic, eyes neutral—in the middle of the hallway, her court standing in line right behind her.

“Milady, may I introduce you?” Desdel gives his guest a dashing smile before snatching an arm around Mylenne’s waist, the woman returning the action with the best smile she can fake. “Mylenne, this is Duchess Aurore and her daughter, Lady Ailen, of the Great House of Astravar. Your Highness, I believe you have met my dear daughter a couple of centuries back, yes?”

The Duchess gracefully nods her head at her, a nice smile crossing her lips. “ _Ishnu-alah_ , Lady Mylenne. It is been a long time since I have seen your lovely face…”

“Unfortunately so, milady,” She regards the Duchess in her best manner, bowing and holding the folds of her dress—it’s the best she can do with the unwavering stare of her father from behind her, always studying her. “I am glad that all is well.”

After the salutations, the Astravar and their court start to move to the dining room, Lord Stareye’s midnight-dark coat waving as he leads the way, right beside the Duchess. Servants are set to work, some holding discarded robes, some others removing chairs for all to sit around the big table.

“My dear, could you show the guards their way to their posts?” Desdel asks from behind his shoulder, barely regarding her, and returns to speak with the Duchess and her daughter. “You must pardon our manners, milady; it is been far too long since we received such an amount of spellcasters on our Manor. Mylenne will be right back…”

Although nobody expects an answer from her, for then the door is shut, leaving only four guards, her maids and Mylenne alone in the hallway. She barely keeps a frustrated snort from escaping her face, yet the woman rolls her eyes at the door before dismissing the servants and leading the way to the courtyard—if she recalls correctly about _where_ the guards should be placed, anyway.

Yet it isn’t until she opens the door for the men to come through when a familiar face is shown to her, right after he nods politely. She gapes at the Moon Guard man as he walks past her, wide-eyed, a memory of a long past night flashing before her eyes.

_“Lothrius? I thought you were at the Stronghold…” He said, golden eyes blinking twice in apparent surprise._

_“I just escaped,” The man shrugged as if dismissing his comment, nodding past them, “Doesn’t matter now, what matters is that the_ hurricane _is coming. To your right,”_

A gloved hand is placed upon her shoulder, returning Mylenne to the present time—and, if unwillingly, far away from happy memories of a lovely night—almost making her jump in surprise. “Milady, are you feeling alright?” The soft voice of a man regards her, laced in concern.

A heavy exhale of breath escapes her lips, right before shaking her head—if she does it to answer to the guard or just in an attempt of shake the memory away, Mylenne may never know; or maybe it’s a mix of both. “Do not mind Lothrius, milady. He has this tendency to be careless, sometimes. He is working on it…” The guard attempts to lighten the mood, a soft chuckle following his words. “Are you well, though?”

Mylenne nods thoroughly, trying to regain her composure and recover from her slight shock. The sight of _his_ friend is the first familiar face she happened to come across since the last two months in seclusion, and certainly someone she had completely forgotten about—not for their brief encounter but more for the other pleasant memory of her dancing partner.

“Oh, yes, I am fine,” Mylenne insists in her best attempt to reassure her companions—and deep down, herself. “Something just came to my mind, that is all. Please, pardon my manners, sir—”

It’s in that very moment when the worried guard shows his face, finally facing her, and she is left breathless.

A short and rebel cobalt mane gets on display, next to a charming smile, a set of sharp teeth showing from behind dark, plump lips. A pair or pale golden eyes lock with hers, flashing in evident appreciation of what he sees. A small blush creeps up her cheeks at the sight of the handsome man, her mind instantly remarking his similarities to another _particular_ man that—almost hauntingly—still lingers in her memories.

In what may be a bold move—considering the place and the situation—the man nods respectfully at her before grasping her hand, “Officer Hargo’then at your service, _milady_.” He introduces himself, his silky voice lowering to a seductive tone, golden gaze still locked with hers as he kisses her hand. “It is my very pleasure to finally meet the Violet Star…”

For the first time in two months, a smile slowly clings to her painted lips. “The—the pleasure is mine,” She awkwardly clears her throat, trying her best to recover her voice, only succeeding in his smile widening. “But, please, Mylenne is just fine.”

“As you wish, though you must excuse my surprise; despite your public references, I am afraid there are no recordings that could warn me of such beauty,” He says, almost solemnly, a gloved finger slightly brushing the back of her hand before letting go. “Yet, if Mylenne is fine, then you may call me just Hargo.”

Her blush strengthens with his praise, the small smile on her lips threatening to get wider and wider. That charming manner, those remarkably similar features and thick cobalt brows moving teasingly over his dark face, that dashing smile—Mylenne can’t help but relax and lower her guard, feeling as for how her previously numb heart slowly starts to work again after two months of deep silence.

For that man can only remind her of a younger version of Illidan Stormrage.

It may not be _him_ , he may not have that long and oh so beautiful long cobalt mane of his, that deep baritone voice which makes her knees wobbly and weak, and certainly he doesn’t have that intense gaze which sends her heart racing.

However, Mylenne is quite aware of where they are. And what place could be better for her than the Stareye Manor to—at least for a moment—just… pretend?


	12. Starshards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t be developing a certain _obsession_ with Mylenne; that couldn’t be right, not when they had… how many? Four encounters? And that if he doesn’t count two of them being merely by accident.
> 
>  _You’d been interested in other females with_ half _an encounter, Stormrage, and don’t remember half the faces and names from the ones you bedded with. I’d say that’s more than your fair share for this one_ , the mocking voice of his conscience remarks for him—almost as if it scolds him for allowing himself a moment of self-doubt.
> 
> Illidan indulges himself a blank minute by picking some more oil and a cleaner rag, then takes care of the next sword, watching how—below the layers of dirt—a pale silver color starts to show over the blade. He blinks twice, a pensive hum escaping his mouth as he frowns deep in thought.
> 
>  _Exactly_ , the inside voice returns, _that’s what you need to do: Get to the bottom of this. You can’t assume anything about her when you don’t even know a quarter of it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for lots of info! You can check out the full extract in this repository: [Starsurge: Codex](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9139636/chapters/20765953)

** Darnassian: **

**Arane:** A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for “nightmare/s”.

 **Izal-Shurah** : A library, publicly mentioned as “The greatest library of Suramar”.  

 **Calendar:** Embrace (Joining of Elune and The Child): **(1:500)**. Current year: **30:2**. (Check author’s note for more information).

* * *

** Stormrage **

It had been exactly three weeks after the Moon Festival when the only feeling that threatens to tear off his throat is pure, unadulterated laughter—just laugh at the irony of it all and laugh it out loud, uncaring of anyone who may hear him.

Illidan is quite aware of his fame, yet who’d have said it? This time, for real, the beguiler had become _the beguiled_.

Syrana had already spilled her whole glass of Nightpear Cider when he’d summarized her the events of that night—one-quarter apologizing and feeling sorry for his misfortunes, three-quarters cackling and barely crying with laughter at the almost unbelievable events he endured.

Then, after the serious talk, buried under the couches of his small house, he and his friend spent the rest of the night undergoing the _really serious_ talk. The kind of “… _and then, the woman I was trying to court ends up to be a Highborne_ ” talk—and they both ended up spilling their too many drinks at that point, but Illidan would never admit that to anybody.

Still, it’d been definitely a joke. That beautiful, long-haired, Moonberry wine devotee, amazing dancing partner, with the most mesmerizing silver eyes he had ever seen… a Highborne—a _Stareye_ , of all Houses in Suramar.

Was that for real? Mylenne _arane_ Stareye. It must have been a joke.

“Ooh, you have it sooooo bad, Lid…” Syra had spurted on the couch of his house, almost falling down to the floor and barely keeping herself from laughing louder. She had exploded either way after taking a single look at him. “Just look at your face! Ha! You’ve fallen soooo hard,” She insisted, her words slurring.

“I don’t fall for anything _or anyone_ ,” He had complained, setting his best irritated face at her—a little difficult task after so many drinks.

Yet she only had dismissed his grumbling with a flick of her hand, threatening her balance in the process. “How does it feel to get your tricks back at you?” She teased, sending a knowing look at him, “Oh, but you liked it. Better yet, you loooooved it! I bet you can’t stop thinking about her now…”

At the time, he’d refrained from answering, pretending to be busy with finishing his drink. But, who was he lying to? He hadn’t stopped thinking about her—and two weeks later, he certainly must admit that he _can’t_ stop either way.

How long is it since he had been in so much trouble?

It is so, as Illidan spends the rest of his night at the armory—offering to take up Lothrius’ duty of weapon cleaning too eagerly for his officer’s suspicion—he chooses to ponder over the last events once more, this time with more than the fair quote of self-honesty.

As he picks the cleanest rag and takes the closest two blades to place over his lap, the man first takes some minutes to enjoy the solitude of the room. For the last couple of weeks, he had been self-indulging in many of his personal pleasures in some petty attempt to recover some control of his own disturbed mind—or perhaps to only fix the cracks of that hard wall of arrogance he’d worked so much in building, protecting him from any further disappointment.

He had been drinking too much, working too much, walking too much, even spent three nights sleeping with Syrana—only sharing a bed, though, for he’d been less than willing to add more problems to his already long list, but the feeling of a warm, female body next to him had helped for a bit—and still he couldn’t stop his mind from racing.

Even when Illidan made sure of keeping himself busy, surrounding himself with people, filling his hands with books, swords, hard spells and bottles of Cider, then the picture of that woman had started to assault his dreams, the sound of her musical laughter following him everywhere he went.

Yet, his brain is surely exaggerating, isn’t it? He couldn’t be developing a certain _obsession_ with Mylenne; that couldn’t be right, not when they had… how many? Four encounters? And that if he doesn’t count two of them being merely by accident.

 _You’d been interested in other females with_ half _an encounter, Stormrage, and don’t remember half the faces and names from the ones you bedded with. I’d say that’s more than your fair share for this one_ , the mocking voice of his conscience remarks for him—almost as if it scolds him for allowing himself a moment of self-doubt.

Illidan indulges himself a blank minute by picking some more oil and a cleaner rag, then takes care of the next sword, watching how—below the layers of dirt—a pale silver color starts to show over the blade. He blinks twice, a pensive hum escaping his mouth as he frowns deep in thought.

 _Exactly_ , the inside voice returns, _that’s what you need to do: Get to the bottom of this. You can’t assume anything about her when you don’t even know a quarter of it._

That’s how, an hour and a half later, he reports to Officer Hargo’then and gets free for the rest of the night, climbing the stairs two steps at the time to reach the dressing room and find Syrana. The silver hood that hangs next to Lothrius’ training armor gets to be enough of a message for Illidan to not disturb his friends at the moment, anyway. So, he takes off his dirty shirt and wears his off-duty robes in record time, arranging his ponytail hastily on his way out of the Stronghold, too entrenched in his thoughts to be able to say farewell to the men and women that get in his way.

Figuring that Syrana wouldn’t mind, he takes off his silver crescent moon necklace, leaving it hanging where the reins of Syrana’s saber used to be, mounting atop the dark-furred beast and going at full gallop to the streets, his destination clear.

The tall alabaster columns surrounding Izal-Shurah can be seen from several streets away before arriving—half an hour later—right before the wide silver gates of the building. As he dismounts with practiced ease and ties the saber’s reins around the closest tree, the sun is close to rising when Illidan enters to the library, walking past quiet hallways and beginning his search.

With warm candles floating around the place, he finds the History sector on the second floor of the building, fingers brushing the books placed by alphabetical and Embrace order on the wooden shelves. Five minutes later, he finds the book he’s looking for, using two fingers to extract the large tome off the shelf. Over the dark-leathered surface and written with white ink, it reads: _‘Lineages: The Houses of Suramar, Tome 3 (Embrace 20-30)’_ , by Lorekeeper Kildrath.

After taking a seat Illidan’s fingers dance in the air, the soft purplish mist of magic enveloping his hand as he scrolls through the pages of the big tome. Lots of House names are shown before him while he keeps scrolling; Shadowsong, Silversky, Springblade, Staghelm, Stardawn… and there, he finally finds it, fingers roaming over the page 264.

 _“ House Stareye: Formed around 15:4 with the union of Hethaes of House Nighteye (from Then’Ralore) and Eradris of House Starsong (from Suramar). See _Tome 2 _for more information.”_

Illidan turns over the page, not quite interested in the chronological events of the House just yet—there aren’t many remarkable events after all, as for having only one generation of kaldorei with noteworthy significance.

“ _Sigil: A violet eye with a three-pointed silver star. (Originally: A four-pointed star, its north point in golden. Remade by Lord Desdel Stareye around 27:5).  
Markings: Two vertical violet stripes, from forehead to cheek, curved inwards.”_

A snort escapes Illidan’s lips, not believing his stupidity for missing the obvious clue of Mylenne’s face markings. And while it’s true that any kaldorei caste is allowed to wear markings, it’d always been quite easy to notice the ones belonging to noble families—as for them having brighter and more elegant lines painted over their faces, more of a work of art rather than a simple distinction.

Omitting unimportant members of the House, his fingers trace the page 266, a known name catching his eye. 

_“ Silgryn Stareye: Date of birth: 20:2 (midnight) in Suramar. Dark-violet hair, silver eyes. Firstborn son of Seldron (formerly of House Fogmane) and Laenia._  
_Title: ‘The Wandering Star’._  
_Presented first signs of magic at childhood, first pursued studies in Enchanting, then graduated from the University of Suramar in 21:7 with honors in Ancient History.”_

The picture of a young man with violet hair—long and past his shoulders, almost in a similar fashion to Illidan’s own—adorns the corner of the page, a surprised hum escaping his lips. He hasn’t figured for Silgryn having close to five thousand years old.

“… _Both Stareye siblings became famous for their beauty and well-known to be inseparable, although unlike his younger sister, Silgryn remained unmarried.  After Aedriel’s marriage in 25:3, Silgryn abandoned his post of Archivist to travel around the world.  
His current whereabouts are unknown, yet presumed alive.”_

He taps the page absentmindedly, brows furrowing in thought. “Well, that’s interesting…” He mumbles to himself, quickly scrolling the pages to find the notes about Silgryn’s sister. Something about the vague mentions of her from the man gives Illidan an odd hunch, feeling close to finding the answers he’s looking for.

 _“ Aedriel Stareye: Date of birth: 20:6 (sunrise) in Suramar. Violet hair, golden eyes. Daughter of Seldron (formerly of House Fogmane) and Laenia._  
_Title: ‘The Golden Star’._  
_Presented first signs of magic after birth, graduated prematurely from the Nar’thalas Academy in 21:8, with the highest degree in Arcane Manipulation._  
_Aedriel first followed a career under the Moon Guard order, becoming the youngest Conjurer in Suramar (with 1600 years old), resulting in her promotion to Arcanist. Famous for her beauty as well as for being one of the greatest sorcerers of her era, Aedriel joined the Grand Magistrix’s court of Advisors in 24:1, achieving the highest position of power and nobility status for House Stareye and therefore, dozens of marriage proposals.”_

Illidan barely throws the book away with the shock that overcomes him, wide-eyed and a fist covering his mouth, keeping him from disturbing the silence. Every single kaldorei in Suramar—or, at least, everyone that knows a thing or two about the Highborne—have heard of that name.

And he’s included, of course, as for Advisor Aedriel still being one of the most outstanding sorcerers of all times, a very _symbol_ of his own order. Even Magister Phaedris’ skills—the current leader of the Moon Guard—are insignificant in comparison to that famous woman.

After recovering some of his composure, he keeps scrolling the pages, not bothering to read the long list of Aedriel’s achievements and spell creations—Illidan knows most of them anyway and, ten Embraces later, all her arcane spells are still used, himself included on the list of sorcerers which attempted to improve and enhance them over time.

_“… Previously engaged to Duke Ran’thos of the Great House of Lunastre, Aedriel annulled her betrothal to instead marry Desdel of House Blackoak (from Kal’delar) in 25:3.”_

Illidan spends some time pondering about what he just read, too many questions assaulting his mind. So, was she supposed to be a Duchess? He can understand how Aedriel canceled her betrothal—only someone quite close to the Grand Magistrix’ inner circle could be able to request for such a bold thing as that, and Aedriel indeed was one—but the real question was _why_?

Highborne Lords and Ladies have arranged their marriages ever since 5:1—if Illidan could recall correctly, that is—and that have been the normal procedure for millennia; it’s not actually a proper law but the usual way to keep and maintain their noble caste. Also, it had been the perfect way to produce children high or average-skilled in magic, but with magic within them regardless.

So, with that regard, could that be that Aedriel married Mylenne’s father because she simply… _loved_ him? But then, how such a remarkable woman as her could hold any dear sentiment towards an infamous man as Desdel Stareye?

It results that, as Illidan turns to the next page, a last line from the book reminds him that—at least for public records—it had been entirely the opposite.

_“After a report from her husband of an assassination attempt on him and their daughter Mylenne, Aedriel got stripped away from her magic and banished from Suramar around 27:2. Her current whereabouts are unknown, yet presumed deceased.”_

Illidan sighs heavily, looking at anywhere in particular and deep into his thoughts. He’d heard and read about the tragic fall of Aedriel Stareye—everyone had. About how rooted and strong had been the arcane within her that, ultimately, it had driven her utterly insane; her magic reaching such powerful levels and becoming wild, uncontrollable, corrupting her mind and destroying all that she had been before.

Some people have said that her corruption started when Aedriel got pregnant, some others when her brother left her side. From the Sisterhood, a certain number of Priestesses claimed that it had been the Goddess’ punishment to Aedriel for going against of what she had always been destined for—to become a Duchess, allowing her bloodline to ensure sons and daughters of the higher caste as possible and, perhaps, one of them resulting in a Prince or Princess.

An odd image takes form in Illidan’s mind, for—if agreeing with that claim—in another life, then Mylenne would have been a _Princess_.

All in a sudden, the most perfect picture of her flashes before his eyes: Mylenne wearing an alabaster gown, fitting into it like a second skin, her impossibly long violet hair waving with the soft caress of the wind, decorated with delicate multicolored jewelry. An embellished silver diadem adorning her head, the color matching her stunning eyes—eyes which could only smile at him, two bright silver orbs shining like beacons…

A longing sigh escapes Illidan’s lips, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. He seriously needs to stop fantasizing about her—she couldn’t be any more attractive for him either way, fantasy or not. Yet he still needs to stop, at the very least for his own sanity, it’s already enough to have the woman haunting his dreams for him to evoke her when he’s awake.

However, now that he ponders about it, Illidan realizes he’s getting more questions than the answers he’d been looking for when he arrived at Izal-Shurah. Running a tired hand over his face, he focuses on the tome once more.

 _“ Desdel Stareye (formerly Blackoak): Date of birth: 20:8 (nightfall) in Kal’delar. Midnight black hair, silver eyes. Son of Thedras (formerly of House Springblade) and Tysha. See ‘_Lineages: The Houses of Val’sharah, Tome 2 _’ for more information._  
_Title (granted after marriage): ‘The Nightsaber’._  
_Born with no signs of magic, little records are shown for Desdel except for his initiation in the Black Rook order, around 23:9…”_

No new information, there—perhaps the knowledge of his Highborne title, but certainly nothing of interest for him. But then, his finger twitches as he stops, pointing at a very particular line. _  
  
“… Desdel and Aedriel amassed a great amount of fame and wealth before the birth of their only daughter, Mylenne, in 26:2. When presumed dead after the Raid of Kal’delar (See _‘Wars and battles of the kaldorei empire’ _by Lorekeeper Javon, for more information), Desdel later survived an assassination attempt on him and his daughter around 27:2. He reported Aedriel as the responsible, resulting in the banishment of his wife.”_

Something about the whole ordeal feels pretty wrong for Illidan. At first, the idea of Aedriel losing control of her magic by only getting pregnant—he’s no healer, that’s for sure, but pregnancy it’s certainly not a disease or a curse; if anything, and given the low pregnancy rate for kaldorei, it’s a _blessing_ —sounds quite unbelievable.

And then, it’s almost hurtful to think for someone to reach so far, to have such a brilliant career… only to fall harder in disgrace.

Besides, he can’t miss Desdel’s mysterious appearance on Aedriel’s life. From Kal’delar to Val’sharah, traveling to Suramar and meeting the Golden Star—a warrior, an unknown from a low caste and from a distant village, suddenly coming to one of the greatest Highborne cities and having the opportunity to meet the right hand of the Grand Magistrix.

At any rate, it’s a very curious encounter and, as for Illidan having some knowledge of Lord Stareye infamous nature, one pretty hard to believe it real.

But as the first sun rays creep through a high window and some movement is heard from the floor below, Illidan realizes he’s running out of time and the library is about to close its doors for the night. So, he scrolls over the pages, omitting some events from Lord Stareye he’s definitely not interested to read, getting to that _precise_ page he’d been looking for since he started reading that book.

 _“ Mylenne Stareye: Date of birth: 26:2 (sunrise) in Suramar. Violet hair, silver eyes. Daughter of Desdel (formerly of House Blackoak) and Aedriel._  
_Title: ‘The Violet Star’._  
_Born with no signs of magic, first pursued studies in Astronomy, then graduated from the University of Suramar in 27:4…”_  
  
He goes through the last line three times before really understand what’s written on that page. “This is a mistake. It must be…” Illidan muses to himself, astonished and wide-eyed.

‘No signs of magic’? Mylenne’s the first woman he had ever met with arcane energy almost _pouring out_ of her skin! He’d ever seen her casting a spell to cut a chunk of her hair the first time he saw her.

The text doesn’t have any sense for him. Or could it be that she developed her magic at a later age? Otherwise, the description gets to be completely inaccurate.

 _“… In between 27:5 and 29:0, Mylenne turned literate in the arts of hunting, local fauna and religious studies of the Moon. Her knowledge and passion for star charts also earned her a mention in ‘_ Astral Encyclopedia, Volume 3’ _, written by Star Augur Etraeus.  
Mylenne currently resides at the Stareye Manor, undergoing negotiations to a possible initiation into the Sisterhood of Elune.”_

From his periphery, Illidan notices some of the candles flickering off and a couple of abandoned books close to where he sits starting to float, drifting away with soft purplish mists on their way to their previous places on the shelves.

All in a sudden, the tome of _‘Lineages…’_ flies away from his hands, eliciting a startled gasp out of him. “Alright, alright, I’m going,” Illidan grunts as he gets up, growing more irritated within each second passing. For a mere moment, he wants to snatch the book back—library’s rules be damned—and take it to his home for a reread. Maybe if he only duplicates the pages he needs, hiding them under his traveling coat…

But he had just run out of time, dark curtains pulled over the high windows and candles lit off, the floor enclosing in darkness in no time. Grunting under his breath, Illidan only can climb down the stairs in a rush and stride outside before the library closes its doors for the night.

Feeling more frustrated and useless than earlier, he climbs to the saber, galloping to Syrana’s house without giving it too much thought. He seriously needs to vent... and probably drink himself into a stupor.

* * *

**Five weeks later.**

Illidan shuts close his locker door with a little more force than necessary, jaw tightening and sharp teeth clenching. “… ‘Fine’? _Just fine_?” He sneers, trying his best to recollect himself and not to snap in the next moment. “Really? That’s all you have to say? _Fine?_ ”

“Whoa, whoa, Stormrage! I’m sorry, alright?” Lothrius holds his palms up defensively beside him, his voice genuinely apologetic. “Honestly, I don’t have much to say. She seemed… fine. How should I know? I’m not a mind reader!”

Cursing under his breath, Illidan sits on the bench of the dressing room, rearranging his cobalt ponytail. “Bah! I should have taken that guard instead of you,” The man grunts as he kicks off his working boots, massaging the back of his neck in order to ease down his growing frustration. “But, really? Isn’t anything that you can tell me about her, Loth? What about Lord Stareye?”

“Oh, that man means trouble,” Lothrius concedes as he takes a seat beside him, brows furrowing in apparent worry, “He had this… devious smirk all over his face, it was pretty unnerving, to say the least,” The man explains, shoulders tense as if holding back a shudder and focusing on taking off his boots, “Well, I actually do have something to tell: He didn’t spare a single glance to his daughter for the whole night.”

“What do you mean?” Illidan frowns, resting his elbows on his knees, “I thought you said Mylenne hadn’t attended the meeting…”

“Well, she did eventually, if only to play the host with Lady Ailen,” His friend adds with a shrug, “What I’m trying to say is, when she was at the Main Hall, it was like Lord Stareye seemed to _avoid_ looking at her. Almost as if he didn’t want to acknowledge her, acting as if she wasn’t there at all…”

Illidan stays still for a moment, sharing a look with his friend before mulling over what he just said. At least that clears one of his big suspicions, and Lord Desdel Stareye really isn’t what people believe he is. There has to be something odd about him if his own daughter seems to want anything to do with him, hiding away from his sights at the very first chance she gets.  

Although once more, he has more questions rather than real answers, and he’s starting to grow tired of them.

He pats Lothrius’ shoulder before heading out of the Stronghold, taking one of the free sabers and deliberately ignoring Officer Hargo’then when he bids him farewell, holding back a threatening growl on his way out.

Oh, yes, Illidan have already heard about that man shamelessly flirting with Mylenne; it’d been the first thing that Lothrius revealed to him when detailing the events of the previous night. However, if that man believes for a mere second that he’s going to have his easy way with her—with the woman that Illidan laid his eyes upon _way earlier_ than him—then no matter, for Hargo’then is more than invited to step up into the game.

And that’s the main reason of why, instead of heading to Meredil and the unappealing silence of his home, he then turns left, going at full gallop to the Temple of Elune.

… But she’s nowhere to be seen.

Two months later, he still comes back; taking different routes and schedules just to make sure he’s not missing her supposed end of shift. During all those mornings and every time he visits the Temple, he stays atop his borrowed saber, watching at the Sisters walking down the streets—feeling just as unlucky as the night before when not a single flash of violet comes across.

Sooner rather than later, it starts getting utterly frustrating.

He even dares to face Tyrande and ask her for Mylenne’s whereabouts one stormy night, also pretending to be oblivious to Sylenna’s longing glares, from the main chambers of the Temple. To his surprise, not even his old friend has a clue of where her fellow Sister could be—she only admits to wondered about it for a while, after Mylenne’s sudden absence, yet never dared to ask the High Priestess.

However, he’s not that bold to ask Mylenne’s friend—the silver-haired woman, Maiev—pretending to be wandering around when the Sister shows up at the marble balcony, another cold night.

When Illidan is about to give up and shrug it off for good measure, as well as for his own sanity, it’s that particular night when he comes across a glimpse of dark-violet, galloping around the corner of the Temple.

His breath hitches. _Silgryn Stareye… how could I forget about him?_

“Hey! Hey, Silgryn!” He yells from the other side of the street, pulling at the reins of his saber and managing to trot to his position. But the man never turns around and not even flinches, keeping on his route, seemingly oblivious of his callings. Illidan swallows a grunt, plain irritation showing in his voice when he next shouts, “ _Stareye!_ ”

Silgryn’s mighty frostsaber stops its trot all in a sudden, dull silver eyes behind a small curtain of dark-violet hair turning to look at him, a challenging gleam over his gaze—as if he’s seemingly readying for a fight.

“Watch that tongue, lad.” A growl follows—from the man as well as from his beast. "Nobody rather uses that name much anymore. Even less so such as _boldly_ …" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A-N: The calendar: Hours, days (well, nights in this case), seasons and years are classic, but the kaldorei calendar is based on Embrace periods. The **Embrace** is an extraordinary celestial event when Azeroth’s two moons (Elune—or the White Lady—and the Blue Child) are in an extremely rare conjunction. This happens once every 500 years, so **(1:500)**.
> 
> Time is expressed with the Embrace next to a 50-year type unit, from 0 to 9. Example: The current year on the novel is (almost) **30:2 (15100 years)**. Another example: Mylenne was born on **26:2, sunrise** , giving her an age close to **2000 years old**. The Stormrage twins were born on **25:4, sundown** , so they are close to **2400 years old**.
> 
> Trivia: Golden-eyed kaldorei are used to born on daylight. Kaldorei celebrate birthdays ( _Kal-tora_ , which stands “Birth night”) every 100 years.


	13. Braid of Ten Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why does he bother? Why does he care, at the very least? He knows what usually tends to happen when he gets involved with entitled, noble Ladies such as her, and most of the times everything ends up pretty badly. So—and with that already acknowledged—why he’s so entrenched into solving that strange mystery that is Mylenne Stareye?
> 
> Why he’s so interested in a female _he barely knows_?

** Darnassian: **

**Min'da:** Mother.

 **Kal-tora:** Literal: “Birthnight”. Birthday.

 **Elune-Adore:** “Elune be with you.”

 **Arane:** A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for “nightmare/s”.

 **Embrace:** Kaldorei calendar, marking the joining of Elune and the Blue Child. **(1:500)**

 **Erana-dora isil:**  May translate to “You have my thanks” or "A thousand thanks upon you".

* * *

** Stormrage **

Silgryn Stareye’s frostsaber growls menacingly with Illidan’s approach, his borrowed beast being the first to perceive the danger and starting to fidget in obvious discomfort. Illidan attempts for gripping the reins a little tighter, pulling to one side to maintain control of his mount.

A moment later, Silgryn apparently decides to have mercy on him, an amused snort following as he rubs his saber’s furry cheek. “Easy, Shakar, it’s just the lad,” He says, soothing his beast with an evident tenderness in his voice. “He’s a friend of your _Min’da_ … I think,”

He hesitates for a second, his gaze traveling to Illidan’s face for a real answer. “Uhm, pardon me?” Illidan can only wonder, blinking twice.

Silgryn tilts his head to the side for a moment in apparent consideration, until he seems to recall what he just previously said. “Ah! This is my girl, Rak’shakar! That’s riiiight, you’re my favorite girl, oh yes you are…” He coos in a faked voice, rubbing the saber’s ears more thoroughly and delighting in her purr. “She’s sister of Rak’shareh, Mylie’s saber. Of course, only Mylie can ride such a fierce lassie. Have you seen her?”

“Her frostsaber, you say?” Silgryn nods absently, more focused on his ‘girl’ of a saber, “I am afraid I only did once, when I first met Myli—Mylenne,” Illidan corrects himself quickly, assuming it wouldn’t be good to overstep certain boundaries. “She seemed to be quite fierce, indeed. Does not look like a friendly beast, unfortunately…”

“And you appear to be quite the _friendly_ one when it comes to naming people, I’d say,” Silgryn teases, looking at him through the corner of his dull silver eyes. “Friendly as well as bold, of course. A little odd too, given the particular place we happen to meet,”  

Silgryn’s gaze travels behind his shoulder, although never lingers for too long before resuming his path along the road, a certain air of confidence following him and certainly showing in his mischievous smirk. His frostsaber obliges to his requests as if she doesn’t need any indication, barely needing a small pull of her reins to start moving once more.

With his saber still looking tense and edgy—although being a little more manageable than before—Illidan decides to travel beside the violet-haired man, his mind racing with questions. “What are you doing here, then?” He opts not to step up to his teasing game, not if he can help it.

“Should I be somewhere else, lad? You already know how they call me…” He answers in a cryptic tone, making Illidan’s brows frown in confusion. “You did your homework, haven’t you? It’s written all over your face.”

 _What—really? How so?_ Illidan wonders, although he does his best to not voice it, getting oddly conscious of his own reactions. “If you do not like to be called for your House name, then I do not see why you take your title so seriously…” He then continues, carefully avoiding the silent traps his companion seems to be insisting on placing.

“That’s because I’m _literally_ a wanderer. I rather prefer the ladies to call me Sil, though. Oh, but you can do too!” He keeps his banter, the mischievous smirk plastered on his face growing more and more within each second passing.

For a moment, it feels like Silgryn’s amusement grows along with his irritation. “Uhm, thank you, but I would rather not,” Illidan just says back, pursing his lips when his voice comes out a little harsher than he’d like.

The elder Stareye just laughs at that—if he’s laughing with him or _at_ him, Illidan can’t really figure it out, yet his suspicions are on the latter.

 _Is this man always so at ease with everyone?_ He can’t help but ponder to himself as they go along the road, the cobblestone streets guiding them to Suramar’s outskirts and the small towns settled around the city.

He knows pretty well he hadn’t done anything to, certainly, win Silgryn’s… _approval_ —besides of the small fact that he’d helped his niece to find her way around the Moon Festival unrecognized, that is. Regardless of that, Illidan also can’t forget his fiery stare when he found them, right after finishing with Mylenne’s disguise.

It had been the look of a feral beast, decided to defend its cub at any cost. And yet, as well as the worst part of it all: It also had been the look of someone who had placed himself in danger’s way many times over—who had _protected_ Mylenne many times over.

“Oh why, that’s too bad! Your loss, then,” Silgryn shrugs off his silence, also taking him out of his reverie. “So, I’ll take it you’re looking for my niece. Bah, of course you are, you wouldn’t be lurking around the Temple otherwise…”

The way he talks about Mylenne, as well as his—nearly—defensive behavior when it regards to her; all those small hints make Illidan only consider that Silgryn looks too much of a fatherly figure… _and yet they call themselves uncle and niece?_

Illidan points out the obvious. “Could not that be because I have friends there?”

“Yeah, right… _friends_ ,“ He snorts the word, clearly not believing it. His smirk widens then, an amused gleam in his silver gaze, “Oh, check this out! ‘ _The Sorcerer and the Priestess_ ’, how does that sound for a novel title? Catchy, isn’t it?” He waves his arms exaggeratedly, playfully winking at him.

Illidan’s lips press together as if he had just tasted raw kimchi. “Now you are just trying to piss me off.” He scoffs, adjusting his balance on the saddle and rolling his eyes in exasperation.

Silgryn pulls his frostsaber gently to the right, an amused cackle following him as Illidan’s saber tries to keep up the other beast’s pace. The picked road takes them further to Suramar City and farther away from Meredil and his home, yet he could be damned if he decides to come back to his house without any real answers.

“What can I say? Must be in our bloodline, or maybe we Stareyes are just _that_ charming.” Silgryn admits, half-apologetic but seemingly indifferent. “But Mylie’s fine, lad; I wouldn’t be idly wandering around otherwise…”

_So, he’s not just bluffing. He actually knows something._

“Where is she if not attending to her duties at the Temple? Is she alright? Hiding with you, perhaps?” Curiosity gets the better of him, questions upon questions escaping his mouth without a second thought. “Or is her father keeping her locked up somewhere?”

His companion nearly stops trotting, “Whoa, whoa! Aren’t you thirsty for knowledge?” The elder Stareye cries as he cocks his violet head at him, looking surprised. Yet it only lasts for a moment, for then he snorts and says, “Why, yes, of course! Silly me, I almost forget _what_ you are! But why the questions, though?”

Answering with another question—that’s a game Illidan right then notices he dislikes. “I beg your pardon?”

“Why are you so concerned about her, lad? I’m not the one to meddle on what she’d told you or not.” Silgryn insists, giving him a knowing look as his frostsaber resumes her walk, a small conceding tone in his voice replacing his never-ending teasing.   

The answer comes more easily than expected. “I have not seen her in four months, Silgryn. Nobody tells me anything of her whereabouts, and I…” He sighs tiredly, already regretting the words coming out of his mouth when he next says, “I just want to know if she is alright.”

“Aaw, did my little niece already carve herself a spot in your arcane-stained heart? Never took you for a romantic, lad.” Silgryn beams at him, a wild gleaming in his silver eyes showing his utter delight with their conversation. “Oh well, actually never knew sorcerers _had_ a heart…”

If it were for Illidan, he’d have settled his companion’s saber and his waggling violet eyebrows on fire at that point, certainly reaching the end of his patience. And yet, Silgryn’s gibe surprisingly triggers the reminder of another conversation, with another more acquainted kaldorei in his stead—though sometimes just as annoying as the man currently beside him.

_“… Oh, but you liked it. Better yet, you loooooved it! I bet you can’t stop thinking about her now…”_

That’s a question he’d been blatantly avoiding those past four months. _Why am I doing all this?_ Is it because of that utterly heartbreaking look she gave him, the last time he stared at those bright silver eyes of hers? Is it because he’d started to care for Mylenne all in a sudden?

Why does he bother? Why does he _care_ , at the very least? He knows what usually tends to happen when he gets involved with entitled, noble Ladies such as her, and most of the times everything ends up pretty badly. So—and with that already acknowledged—why he’s so entrenched into solving that strange mystery that is Mylenne Stareye?

Why he’s so interested in a female _he barely knows_?

His companion clears his throat, recalling Illidan’s attention. “Well, jokes aside, your curiosity is not a real answer,” Silgryn objects, his usual self-assured posture softening a little—for once. “You should be more careful with trying to mess with a girl like Mylie. Regardless of what do you think of her, you’re forgetting we’re still _quel._ ” He says, a warning tone in his voice with the mention of their noble status.

Illidan rolls his eyes at him, irritation more than evident in his golden gaze. “I am quite aware of that, believe me…”

“Alright. So, honestly then… why do you care, _Illidan_?”

The mention of his name makes him flinch—and it’s a surprise that Silgryn recalls it, at all—tightening his grip on the leather reins as his eyes narrow into crinkled slits, feeling quite uncomfortable with the voicing of his own thoughts.

He’s not accustomed to having doubts about himself or his own actions, yet with Mylenne’s case, Illidan is slowly getting into the realization that he’s doing exactly what he most despises. And as he opens his mouth to say something— _anything_ —a full minute goes by and he just… can’t.

What should he say, anyway? ‘ _I am unsure_ ’ doesn’t seem like an appropriate answer and he wouldn’t dare voice such a thing; not if he can help it and save himself some decency.

So he curses himself, Silgryn, the Sisters, the Goddess, and the whole city for how _stupid_ he’s starting to feel—most of all, he curses the mere moment when he thought that empathizing with someone else couldn’t lead to consequences such as the current.

Empathizing, caring, being compassionate; holding such… _feelings_ , that couldn’t possibly lead to anything good for him. It could only mean trouble, therefore becoming weak, fragile and vulnerable. It leads to developing a soft spot that can’t be used for something good or convenient.

Most of all, it points to a gray spot—to a dangerous place when he starts to question every single movement, every word he says, every tiny thought nagging his mind. And how can he handle a gray spot when his world has always been black or white, good or evil, convenient or inconvenient, beautiful or boring?  

Illidan never notices they have stopped until Silgryn’s violet mane enters his line of sight, looking at him with a tilt of his head—almost as if he’s seeing him for the first time. “Huh, that’s what I thought,” The elder Stareye concludes, the teasing long gone. “You’re quite odd for a sorcerer, you knew that?”

When they lock eyes, Illidan observes there’s something different in his silver gaze this time. Certainly not a distrustful look, not a playful one either—if he can only judge with the hand scratching his violet stubble, or the nearly downcast smile tugging at his mouth.

It’s more as if Silgryn just had realized something he didn’t.

When Illidan’s heart goes racing with apprehension, he suddenly comes to the conclusion that he actually prefers the previous Silgryn rather than the current one—the one who appears to look right through him.

“Do you actually have a problem with sorcerers, or is it only you trying to get on my nerves?” The words come out of Illidan’s mouth in a rush, his brain barely following, yet ultimately approving of finding a way out from that dangerous line of conversation.

Silgryn’s soft and nearly sad gaze quickly shifts into a knowing one, easily catching up with him as he snorts, “Besides most of them being a huge, arcane-tainted piece of ‘gryph shit? Why, I rather don’t!” His shoulders lift in a shrug, seemingly careless to get into further detail, “Good of you to ask, though,”

Illidan is about to definitely give up on the entire conversation, reaching the inevitable conclusion that he will not really get some real answers from Mylenne’s uncle and he’d do better to bid farewell, minding his own business for once.

Although he can only frown in confusion when, in the next minute, the elder Stareye searches his pockets and then hands him a piece of parchment, folded in two, holding it with two fingers.

“Take it before I regret it, lad,” Silgryn insists, pushing the paper into his hand when he hesitates to do so. When he searches his lilac face for answers, his companion thankfully obliges, “It’s from a friend of mine and I can assure you it’s reliable. But I’m warning you, you never got this from me…”

Illidan just stares at him, confused and feeling odd with the abrupt change in his demeanor. “What is it?” He can only ask.

He looks at him sideways. “A way for you to get your answers,” He says as if it’s obvious, tugging at the reins of his frostsaber and resuming his pace on the road, not waiting for him to tag along this time. “By the way, if I get to hear one wrong move from you—and believe me when I say _I’ll know_ —then you might as well really enjoy it, for you’ll be dead by sunrise…”

“Am I not supposed to get those threats from Mylenne’s father?” Illidan wonders for a moment, humming when Silgryn’s only answer gets to be a loud cackle. “Well, that explains a lot…”

The elder Stareye turns to look at him one last time, his beast already eager to get moving, “The night Lord Desdel gets to care about something beyond his noble name, his longsword or his own flat backside, then let me know, lad. I’ll need to take shelter somewhere before the world crumbles into the abyss!”

His last joke elicits a cackle out of him for the first time in the night, relaxing in the saddle of his borrowed mount as Silgryn lazily waves him farewell and gallops away, disappearing on the further corner of the street, apparently on his way to Suramar’s outskirts.

After reaching with the conclusion of the night being one of the most interesting—and utmost perturbed—nights he had in months, Illidan then turns back, returning to the road leading further north and to Meredil, growing eager to get into the solitude of his home.

When he finds the road he then recalls it—the note. Slowing its trot a little bit to be able to use his hands, Illidan unfolds the parchment as he goes, a very elegant and apparently careful handwriting showing in the piece of paper.

_“My friend,_

_The Night will bring a Saber to Lord Moonblade’s ball for his_ kal-tora _, scheduled for the next full moon. It appears a streak of Violet will be shown as well—a peaceful gift, perhaps?_

_I recommend caution, for there’s this golden-eye still lurking around. My little birds sing with friendlier notes about him—which is odd as its best—yet it’s wise if you keep your wariness. I’ll hear some more songs further into the week._

_Now, regarding the weather, the Storm had been insistent on the Temple as of late. Are you certain it’s been two months going on like this? I’ve been watching it myself as you requested it but, while it's been quite an amusing sight, I believe the clouds are coming close to drift by for good measure. Let me know if this will call for a small push in the right direction._

_Who’d have said? I think I grew fond of this tempest already. I certainly wouldn’t mind for some more singing, and I might even do it for free—but only if you ask nicely, of course._

Elune-adore _, my friend. Looking forward to seeing your lovely face,_

_A.”_

* * *

“I can’t believe this!” He exclaims, jaw clenching and teeth gritting in no small repulsion. “He’d been _spying_ on me!”

Despite his nearly horrified expression, his best friend only cackles loudly with his reaction. “Well, you certainly haven’t been very secretive about it, Lid…” Syrana points out as she takes some time by securing the knot of the fur cloak she managed to get him. 

“And what if I haven’t? That doesn’t give him the right to do that, Syra!” Illidan complains, smacking her smaller hand and retying the knot himself. “What would _you_ do if you find out you’ve been spied all along?”

A funny smile is plastered over his best friend’s face as she turns away, pulling a full-body mirror from one corner of her huge dressing room with a flick of her wrist. Bright magic pours out of her fingers just as easy as it seems like, the confidence in her skills quite evident when she doesn’t turn to see if it’s adjusted properly.

“Hmm, I think I’d be a little flattered.” The navy-haired woman shrugs as she pulls the laces of her black corset a little tighter, “But, honestly, this is not about you being spied on, Lid, and you know it.”

“Bah, again with the mystery?” He can only snarl—he’d reached the end of his patience a long time ago, but apparently, the whole world still insists on not giving him straight answers. “Alright, what is it _this time_?”

“You’re just mad because that man hadn’t come to tell you what he knew,” Syrana elaborates as if it’s obvious, “And probably terribly pissed off as well, because you lost some months by walking around in circles without getting any answers by your own hand.”

Illidan can only sigh heavily with her statements, forcing down a growl of disdain that threatens to come out of his mouth. Yes, he’s pissed—and that doesn’t even amount how _really_ pissed he is—and the mere thought of having to reach such levels of frustration only for then to get the very little answers he managed to account…

Then again: _Feelings_. At that point, Illidan is quite certain he rather prefers to attempt for near impossible spells instead of dealing with such things.

Arcane manipulation, he can handle—and more than well for his fellow partners and his own expectations—but, his own mental state?

“Sometimes I just regret calling you my friend…” He only mutters back, straightening up and approaching to the large mirror placed at his right, eager to focus on meaningless details.

Syrana just laughs wholeheartedly, “Oh, but you just look what your _incredibly beautiful friend_ is doing for you! Nobody gets a free pass into a Highborne party as easily as you have, Lid.” She teases, playfully bumping him with her hip before facing him a little more seriously, “Just remember, if someone might get to ask, you are you again?”

He scoffs, recalling her previous words just as easily as when she agreed to work in blending him into the party they’re currently dressing up to go. “Lord Eradan Darkweave, your distant cousin from Ameth’Aran. Tagging along with my younger and _oh so lovely_ relative after many Embraces of not seeing each other,” He opts for some mockery, a small attempt to sound a little less rude.

Syrana never softens as much as he’d expected, signaling him to continue instead as she walks behind him, his big figure shadowing hers on the mirror, “Yeah, yeah, and I’ve only heard so much about Lord Moonblade’s popular masquerade balls…” He rolls his eyes when he’s sure his friend is not seeing him, instantly noticing he’d failed when she smacks him on the head. “ _Ow!_ Hey, I just said it! What else do you want, woman?”

Her navy-haired head peeks out from behind his shoulder, frowning at his image on the mirror, “I want you to be serious about this, Stormrage. Most of the Court will be attending tonight, are you aware how _huge_ is that? You really need to step up into the game if you want to look like a Highborne.”

He tries not to snort again, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in attempts to maintain some composure. Yes, he’s conscious—too conscious, sometimes—of how the game of the Court is played, one just doesn’t spend decades of befriending a Highborne to not get the basics of it, at the very least.

The game of the Court isn’t only huge, but _dangerous_ as well. The expectations for every noble Lord and Lady are always too high for them to even think about failing, or forget how the game is played.

Despite that, Illidan doesn’t really understand why the kaldorei call that a ‘game’ when it’s obvious that such parties and attendances are a more political business than something rather entertaining.

“And no, I’m afraid your _ravishingly_ good looks won’t be enough; this is a game of lies and faked smiles, my friend, not a beauty contest.” Syrana reminds him, a little softer tone in her voice as she occupies her hands with his cobalt hair, pulling gently and arranging an elegant bun.

He opts for casualness; after all and even when his best friend may be slightly distrustful towards his abilities to _play_ , Illidan knows he only needs to be more self-confident—and that, he can do quite nicely. “Aaw, you wound me. Why are you fixing my hair, then, if I can’t use my good looks?” He laments, faking a pout.

She chuckles behind him, giving him an apologetic look, “Oh, I can’t help it! Your hair is sooooo nice!”

* * *

“Milady Starweave, it is delightful to see you!” Lord Moonblade beams at them, capturing Syrana’s gloved hands with utmost delicacy before kissing them in a polite gesture. “It is always a pleasure to receive such a stunning Lady as the Weaver of the Skies into my manor. Oh, please, allow my servants!”

Illidan does his best to hide an amused chuckle, his expression hidden behind an elegant, much elaborated cerulean mask with the mention of Syrana’s noble title. When said with Lord Moonblade’s particular accent, it sounds like a rather more extravagant title than Shalasyr’s, the Moon’s Weave.

Then again, what is it with Highborne and their needs for ridiculous titles? He’s sure he’ll never understand—even when he pretty much appreciates the beauty of the aristocracy.

“ _Erana-dora isil_ , milord. Although there was no way I would miss this event,” Syrana throws a much-practiced bright smile at their host, allowing the servants to hold her coat as she bows respectfully. “We will be talking about this ball for a decade, I am sure of it!”

“And with guests such as you, I can only expect for more than only a decade!” Lord Moonblade laughs, looking very satisfied with Syrana’s presence as he moves to the side to allow them entrance to his pompous manor. “I see you brought a companion. Who do I owe the pleasure of greeting?” The man wonders when Illidan approaches them.

Syrana is quick in recalling his attention, stepping beside Lord Moonblade and linking arms together. “Oh, I am sure you remember House Darkweave, my distant relatives from Ameth’Aran? My cousin had heard a lot about your parties and so much _begged me_ to attend!” She glances at Illidan, nodding for him to come beside her, “I hope you do not mind Eradan joining me tonight…”

Illidan clasps his hands behind his back and under his coat as he saunters to his friend’s side, “ _Elune-adore,_ milord. I am honored to be here,” He greets the man with a slight faking of his voice, adding a tilt of his masked head, “You have my felicitations for your _kal-tora_ ,”

“And you have my thanks, Lord Eradan,” He says back as he elegantly extricates himself from Syrana’s arm, kissing her hand once more as they walk through the main doors. “Celebrations have already begun, so feel free to walk around. Duchess Aurore had been praising the Nightwine tonight, so do not mind asking my waitresses for some!”

“Is the Duchess here? How exciting!” Syrana exclaims in joy—and Illidan _almost_ believes her—as she clings to his arm, guiding them both inside as they chat a little about the guests. As they stop near to some marbled stairs guiding to the balconies of the first floor, she stops there, “Oh, but please, milord, do not let us keep you! I am sure you have to attend to other guests.”

“I am afraid so,” Their host nods in his usual manner after taking a glass of wine from a passing waitress, “But I hope you can save me a dance for later, milady.”

With a more casual wink, Lord Moonblade saunters away and finally leaves them, an amused chuckle from Illidan following when he’s sure there are no prying ears nearby.

Syrana succeeds in getting some fancy drinks for them on their way upstairs, heading to one of the balconies, managing themselves a nice spot and even nicer vantage point—a huge dance floor conveniently placed in the center of the main floor right before their sights.

“So… _Weaver of the Skies,_ ” Illidan starts, not even caring to hide the sheer amusement in his voice as he leans his side onto the balcony’s railing, nursing his Nightwine glass with two fingers.

“You can’t mock me, you idiot,” His friend playfully slaps his arm as she joins him, “You don’t even _have_ a title!” Comes her whisper after leaning her arms on the railing, her back yet straightened and chin lifted high—the very image of a Lady of the Court.

Glancing along, he spends some minutes by watching other Lords and Ladies sharing some drinks, some of them wearing multicolored masks and some others chatting and mingling, layers upon layers of elaborated gowns and suits, easy giggles and easier smiles.

A part of him is aware that he should feel, at the very least, slightly disgusted with such display of opulence—or that’s how his brother would feel if he happened to be in his place. He’s sure Tyrande wouldn’t approve so much either, surely preferring to hang out in open places, feeling the silver moonlight from the Goddess caressing her slight tanned skin, or the night wind toying with her long hair.

But regarding him? Illidan is quite at ease among such company; pretending—as well as dealing with magic—is one of the things he does best.  

With the companionable sound of music pounding around them, he and Syrana spend some time relaxing and subtly tagging the noble kaldorei she can recognize, taking a walk around the first floor with arms linked.

“Don’t speak. Officer _Annoying_ on our five,” His friend mutters, using her drink to cover her lips as they go, turning them to the side and pretending to admire a huge painting of the Goddess.

Fortunately, Officer Latosius just walks past them, too focused in his guard to notice them. “Ugh, and here I thought it was enough with having _three Spellblades_ in the same place. Who is he in guard of, though?” She keeps her voice low, only for Illidan to hear.

“How would I know? Weren’t you supposed to know the shifts?” He points out, trying to catch a glance as subtly as he can, “Lunastre, perhaps? They still don’t have a Spellblade and if the Duchess’ daughter is hanging around…”

“What? Why would Lady Ailen have two—oh…” Her breath hitches when Illidan shots a confusing look her way, “Oh, dear Goddess, you didn’t know…” Her voice comes out neutral, yet Syrana does her best to keep her surprise from showing, quickly emptying her glass with one gulp to regain some composure. “Well, this is awkward…”

It takes Illidan less than a minute to take two and two together. Among the Moon Guard Officers and Spellblades—high-rank guards who only answer to Conjurers or the Houses they pledged to protect—he’s sure that the Guard Captain or the General wouldn’t be called to attend to a place such as that, leaving only two Officers despite Latosius probably hanging around.

One is Latara, which they’ve already seen beside a noble Lord from House Feathersong; and the other…

Illidan rolls his eyes, the cerulean mask conveniently hiding his sheer irritation. “ _Hargo’then_ …” He growls low, striding to the closest railing to take a scan of the main floor, a new objective already set in his mind. “So, he must be the ‘golden-eye’ Silgryn’s friend talked about,”

Syrana smiles and waves to a couple of nobles nonchalantly ogling her as they walk by, grabbing two more glasses with that usual grace of hers on her way to him. “Well, that couldn’t be more obvious, you know,” Her face paints the perfect picture of enjoyment, despite the tone of her voice speaking out with evident exasperation. “As far as I know, he’s here as a civilian, though. And this isn’t official yet, but I’ve heard something about Lady Ailen recommending him for a future post for the Stareyes.”

He blinks twice, hardly believing her words for a moment. “Why, isn’t that _great…_ ” Illidan snarls with clenched teeth, doing a hard work of keeping his face from contorting in sheer frustration. “Although I wonder why Lord Stareye would allow any sorcerer to tag along with him or his daughter," He muses, more to himself rather than to his friend.

“It’s not like he has any say in the matter,” Syrana shrugs slightly, the small movement for only him to see as she keeps smiling and saluting every pompous noble that walks past them. “It seems obvious to me that Lord Stareye is trying to forge an alliance with the Astravars. Can’t find any other way for them to sneak into the Court of Stars otherwise…” Her lips barely move as she speaks, taking precious care of not be heard by unwanted ears.

Illidan hums low, trying to catch up with what her friend says as well as doing his best to understand House Stareye’s position in the whole chess game that is for a Highborne—if the ‘game’ itself has some rational explanation for how it’s played, that is.

Preferring to keep track of the nobles hanging around the main floor, he sneaks a couple of inches closer to his friend, “But they already pledged with the Lunastres,” Illidan can’t help but wonder, taking a swig of his glass as he speaks.

Syrana snorts faintly, “And again, unwillingly. He had to, after figuratively _stealing_ Duke Lunastre’s betrothed and forging a new Household in its stead.” She explains as she rests her back on the railing, adopting a nonchalant pose, not worrying to look at him, “I’d say that was a very small price to pay, though; you just don’t stand in a Duke’s way if you intend to keep playing the game of the Court and live to tell it, my friend…”

He spends some time in silence after that, nursing his drink and mulling over what he just heard as he tries to maintain his gaze focused on the people below them. Syrana certainly has a point with her assumption of Lord Desdel attempting for an alliance with the Astravars. After all, the Lunastres are the only Great House that never claimed a seat in the Court of Stars, seemingly preferring to have their own estate on the opposite side of Suramar’s Highborne territory.

But whatever the reasons for doing that were, Illidan suddenly stops wondering about it, for then a known voice from below reaches his ears, recalling his complete attention.

“ _Since I was young, I knew I'd find you. But our love was a song sung by a dying swan…_ ”

A tender smile clings to his lips, a faint sigh escaping him with the sight of the singer, drums, cellos, and violins encompassing the lovely sound of her voice. Her long violet hair is arranged into a loose braid, decorated with little stars that only highlight the beautiful and characteristic color of her mane, swinging and falling behind her shoulders as she goes.

“ _And in the night, you hear me calling, you hear me calling. And in your dreams you see me falling, falling…”_

He’s not aware that he started moving after Syrana grabs his arm and saunters beside him, walking down the stairs on their way to the main floor. His ear twitches slightly, but Syrana’s words come out muffled as for him being too entranced with Mylenne’s voice, clinging to him from the main stage located next to the dance floor.

Her blue and long, silky gown fits her body like a second skin, the fabric shimmering so very slightly with the lights pointing at her, arms waving gracefully and bright silver eyes glancing at the crowd before her, her gaze soft, her smile softer.  
  
“ _Breathe in the light, I'll stay here in the shadows… Waiting for a sign as the tide grows, higher, and higher, and higher._ ”

A flash of cobalt makes its appearance around the multitude gathered close to the stage, although Hargo’then’s sudden presence is not enough for Illidan to distract him from the woman above, her form and voice captivating him so strongly as if like a charm spell had been applied to him.

Could that even be possible? He can only take a hard swallow, goosebumps showing in his skin, heart fluttering and breath hitching when Mylenne’s oh so bright eyes capture his for a mere moment before drifting away.

“ _And when the nights are long, all those stars recall your goodbye… your goodbye…_ ”

He knows that he may be giving a good show to his friend, still clinging to his arm, for the way he starts getting conscious of his gawking, but he can’t really help it. Somehow he feels slightly sad for Syrana, for he’s aware that he might be probably the only kaldorei that can see the true beauty that is Mylenne Stareye—the flashing lights not even as bright as her aura, gleaming and shimmering all over her pale, delicate lavender skin.

Could it be another more breathtaking sight in the whole world than hers? He’d spent two thousand and four hundred years taking and appreciating the beauty in the world he lives in—the soft texture of expensive silks, the whispers of the wind around the forest at night, the strong yet sweet taste of Nightpear Cider, how the purplish-blue mists of his arcane magic sparkle so cheerfully when touched by the moonlight.  

“ _Breathe in the light and say goodbye…_ ”

And yet, so very few things can compare to the stunning display before his eyes. Honestly, could exist anything more _beautiful_ than her?

Unfortunately—and like all that is beautiful—the song comes to an end, leaving him to nearly startle when the music stops and the crowd gives a round of applause afterwards. Mylenne bows elegantly and waves to Lord Moonblade, who’s standing nearby, before walking down the stage.

Illidan observes her braided violet mane as she strides around the multitude and conveniently away from Lord Stareye, looking too entrenched in a conversation with a masked female to care to pay attention to all the fuss around.

“Well, seems like a nice time for a dance, don’t you think?” His friend takes him out of his reverie, not waiting for an answer as she gracefully pulls him along with her, heading towards the dance floor. Another singer takes the lead and music starts pounding once again before Illidan can notice, “Come on, Lid, I have an idea. You’ll thank me later…” She insists as she grabs his hand, refusing an argument from his part.

He grumbles under his breath but doesn’t pull any resistance, doing a quick recall of the choreography the dancers used the previous turns as they walk down some small stairs, settling behind a line of five couples before heading inside.

Three steps forward, one step backwards, one spin to the left with hands rising up, then face the partner; the routine comes to his mind just as easily as if remembering a spell, growing up more confident as he presses his palm to Syrana’s, facing each other as they stride around the dance floor in circles.

“Not that I really mind, but why are we doing this, again?” Illidan wonders, this time not keeping his voice down as the music does its work in muffling it—as well as the constant chattering from the nobles above.

Once the couples complete a full circle, they set for the new steps; Syrana’s gloved hands going to his shoulders as his settle around her waist, “If you stop focusing _here_ …” She teases, shamelessly glancing down to her breasts, “Then you will get it, you silly,”

One of his eyebrows quirks up in suspicion, a hum leaving his lips as he attempts to slow down their steps a little bit, trying to catch a glance at their surroundings as subtly as possible. His humming easily turns into a growl when a flash of violet and cobalt waves across them.

Once more, he has to thank his choosing of wearing a mask, for his irritation couldn’t be more evident without the cerulean veil over his face; irritation that slowly builds up with the flirty looks that Mylenne and Hargo’then share as they sway with the music.

For a moment, Illidan seriously considers sending a silent curse in Hargo’s way—maybe a blinding spell, or a small gash to ruin his civilian clothes, or a subtle gush to make him trip and fall over, perhaps all of them at once—but Syrana starts giggling before him, pulling at the hem of his vest to recall his attention.

“Don’t even think about it, Lid,” She laughs as he keeps throwing daggers to the couple with his eyes, growing more annoyed with every smirk and wink Hargo’then sends to his partner. “This song is ending, anyway, so here’s my plan,” She elaborates, doing some effort in taking some distance from the offending couple, “I’ll be taking Hargo and you take your girl for the next dance. It’s a deal?”

Illidan quickly returns his gaze to her, nearly slack-mouthed, “Why, aren’t you the most _brilliant_ woman I ever had the pleasure to meet…” He praises, his face brightening with her very clever idea.

Syrana will probably claim for a huge payback further into the week, but he doesn’t care in the slightest as—a minute later—the song concludes and the dancing stops.

After his friend sends a wink his way, they’re quick into getting in line with the five other couples—three on the left and three on the right—he and Syrana doing an elegant bow before Mylenne and Hargo, being replied with the same gesture.

Syrana is the first to step forward, flashing a wicked smile to Hargo and shamelessly ogling him up and down. “Hargo, dear, it’s very nice to see you here!” She greets him with a sultry voice, offering her gloved hand to him, “Spare me a dance, my friend?”

Mylenne seemingly fights to keep her polite smile as Illidan strides to stand before her, noticing how uncomfortable she starts to look, quickly bowing and asking for her hand before she hesitates any further.

“May I have this dance, Lady Stareye?” He asks, looking straight to her bright silver eyes, using that _precise_ tone of his that he knows it has his nice effects in women.

As his friend effortlessly takes Hargo to the other side of the dance floor, her breath hitches for a moment, silver eyes narrowing in suspicion when she finally glances his way. “Uhm, sure…” Mylenne breathes, apparently trying to keep her neutral expression as she offers her hand back.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t have to insist further this time,” Illidan points out, mouth curling into a dashing smile as he captures her hand in his, straightening up and bringing her a little closer, his free hand going to her waist.

As the music starts once more, his smile widens when her eyes blow wide, traveling instantly to his masked face and really looking at him for the first time in that night. A small gasp escapes her mouth, may that be for the slight tingle in their linked hands or for something else, Illidan isn’t quite sure. Right when they begin swaying, she speaks—her voice coming out weak as if not daring to believe it.

“ _Illidan…?_ Goddess, I… is that really you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A-N: Mylie sings 'Oblivion' by M83 - https://youtu.be/1mkUp1V3ys0


	14. Eyes of the Idol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow is both a blessing as well as very unfortunate, how she manages to fail at everything that Lord Desdel Stareye expects from her. No magic to get any more pretty, no good skills for healing or leading, an evident lack of proper style and a tendency to rebel against the ways of the kaldorei nobility.
> 
> It’s still a wonder how a man such as Illidan Stormrage—a fairly opposite of her in so many ways—could be right there enjoying a dance with such a failure as her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, my sincerest apologies for the delay. Been through a writer's block as well as just started university again - yep, lots of stuff coming over in between the last update and this one. In my defense, I've been making up some drafts of further chapters and lots of content from side stories, so I haven't been actually _away_ from this story! I guess the next parts are coming way faster than this one but I can't certainly promise anything. 
> 
> On another note, I'm taking down the fanart for now until I can get something better done. For those who'd really like to see that progress, you can always check out my writing blog on Tumblr (Hoxadrine) - it contains **lots of content** from the Starsurge 'verse, like aesthetics, Mylie, Illidan and Silgryn's headcanons, and some concept art I like to make for my characters. By all means, feel free to browse :D

** Darnassian: **

**An'da:** Father.

**Kal-tora:** Literal: “Birthnight”. Birthday.

**Alah darnana dor:** Formal greeting.

**Ishnu-dal-dieb:** “Good fortune to your family.”

* * *

** Stareye **

_Oh, sweet Elune, have some mercy on me…_

Despite not being too long since they last saw each other, Mylenne certainly wasn’t expecting to meet Illidan again—at least not in his own accords, given how disappointed he appeared to be the last time she looked at his face.

Goddess, and how a handsome face he has; not even that pompous mask really able to cover the sheer beauty over his golden gaze.

Those same golden eyes that, right then, gleam in delight at the evident shock plastered over her face. “Expecting someone else?” He smiles, tightening his hold on her waist when her moves go slightly uncoordinated.

“Well, I thought…” A fortunate pause follows when they briefly separate; waiting for Illidan to return as he walks around her, imitating the steps from the male dancers around. “I certainly wasn’t expecting you, very much less in here, of all places.”

“What can I say? I’m always down for some fancy parties such as these,” Illidan shrugs faintly as he captures her hands again, leading the way across the dance floor, “It’s fortunate that I have Syrana, or I wouldn’t have come here otherwise.” He remarks, nodding vaguely to the couples around them.

“Oh, yeah, Lady Starweave. Lady Ailen told me a thing or two about her,” Mylenne recalls quickly, taking a furtive glance to the rest of the dancers as they go, “She seems… uhm, charming? At least, that seems fitting for a Lady of the Court such as her,” An uncomfortable blush follows, not really knowing what to say about his friend.

Despite being learning proper manners and diplomacy for close than three centuries so far, she knows she’s still a mess when it comes to treating and behaving appropriately among the Highborne, mostly for her _An’da_ ’s displeasure.

Her recent acquaintance—and daughter of the current associate of her Household—Lady Ailen Astravar, had been very helpful in remarking her the basics; yet nobody knows as better as Mylenne does that she’ll probably never be a suitable Lady of the Court or, at the very least, not for everyone’s expectations.

Somehow is both a blessing as well as very unfortunate, how she manages to fail at everything that Lord Desdel Stareye expects from her. No magic to get any more pretty, no good skills for healing or leading, an evident lack of proper style and a tendency to rebel against the ways of the kaldorei nobility.

It’s still a wonder how a man such as Illidan Stormrage—a fairly opposite of her in so many ways—could be right there enjoying a dance with such a failure as her.

Or even chuckling at her lack of words, “No need to be modest with me, I know Syra for more than forty years. I’m aware of her _effects_ among the nobles,” Illidan mentions, remarking his words with a tilt of his cobalt eyebrows before switching into a serious tone. “However, while her connections are a nice plus, she couldn’t tell me much of your last whereabouts.”

“So, it looks like we’ve both been surprised tonight, then.” She smiles as they quicken their pace with the increasing tempo.

However, even with their fast spinning, she can see the way his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Huh? Oh, no, I knew you’d come. That’s actually why I’m here, Mylenne,” He explains as if it’s obvious, leaning a little closer for some privacy as they encircle each other—only joined with their palms pressed together. “Although I’m afraid I wasn’t very happy with the way I found out about you. Your… _acquaintances_ , they look pretty much like the reserved type.”

She only stares at his face, nearly slack-mouthed and slightly conscious of the funny face she must be making, although she can’t really help it. _Did I hear that right? No, I must surely be going deaf._

“What? I… I think I’m lost.” She tries for words, but the sound of her name coming from Illidan’s lips along with a huge load of questions assaulting her mind aren’t particularly helpful, “I don’t get it, weren’t you here for the ‘fancy party’?”

Judging by the cocking of his head, he seems to be losing the track of the conversation as well. “What’s not to get? That I’ve been looking for you since the Festival?” He wonders genuinely, a deep frown following, “I thought if your uncle knew, then you would know as well.”

Fortunately, she’s quick in putting two and two together and recalling what he just said, her ‘acquaintance’ meaning Silgryn Stareye. Although how did Illidan happen to encounter him—the same man that’s known to be quite _slippery_ when it comes to being found by someone, even his own relatives—she certainly doesn’t have any clue.

And yet, there’s a bigger question nagging her, coming right when the song comes close to meet its end and, therefore, their dance to finish.

“You got into all this trouble only to see me?” The words come out of her mouth without giving her time to take them back, “But… aren’t you… I thought—”

“That I’d be mad at you?” Illidan finishes for her, his frowning softening when the routine of their steps allow him to face her, “I am a little, to be honest. It’s not nice to be kept away from crucial details.” He admits, holding her lower back and slightly closer than necessary.

She’s ready to say something in her defense, but only a gasp escapes her after Illidan takes her by the waist and lifts her in the air briefly, the movement surprising her. _Dear Elune, if he’s good at this._

“But I’d be lying if I said I never wanted to see you again.” He then confesses, a sly smirk taking form on his lips ever so slowly, widening just as slow as he bends her back—carefully, elegantly, the very imitation of the way they ended their previous dance, many months ago.

Although Mylenne isn’t as flustered and slightly dizzy this time, allowing her to glance at the breathtaking view of her dancing partner above, his cerulean mask useless to hide the evident delight gleaming on his bright golden gaze.

“And having the opportunity to dance with such a beautiful Lady of the Court, that’s something I certainly can’t refuse…” Illidan whispers, only for her to hear, his breath leaving a ghost touch over her face as he leans over her figure, a mere couple of inches closer.

Yet, with her eyes unconsciously traveling to his lips, it’s still not as close as she’d like.

A moment goes by—or a whole night, Mylenne could never be sure—before he helps her in getting straightened again, that sultry look in his eyes never wavering as he walks a step back and bows before her. She does the same, although with a near clumsiness from her part, making her best to focus on where they are, struggling with her growing nervousness as she gets aware of the many eyes watching her from every corner.

“While I’d say the third is the charm, I believe this is a better time to take a walk instead,” Illidan manages to recall her attention again, offering his arm as a silent cue for them to leave the dance floor.

She can’t help with chuckling, feeling amazed by his very courteous manners, holding to the crook of his elbow and taking their leave, allowing other couples to take their place.

“You seem to be handling this pretty well,” Mylenne admits as she casts a glance around, trying to keep up with the Lords and Ladies saluting her as they go, “Or better than me, actually. Maybe we should switch places sometimes…”

Illidan snorts faintly, “Well, while I certainly wouldn’t mind, I’m not sure if I’d do that when it’s obvious that you will get the better hand,” He points out, somehow managing to get themselves a little closer after a waitress comes by, grabbing the last glass of Nightwine as if having a one-time chance to do so.

Mylenne sends him one of her most genuine smiles of that night as she takes the offered drink, thankful as well as humbled for Illidan’s attentions. While she’s absolutely not sure what she did to capture his interest, it feels amazingly good to have something close than an ally around her, willing to help her to play the scheming game of the Court—something she didn’t know she needed so much until arriving at Lord Moonblade’s manor.

After Illidan spots a free table for them to use, they get quickly acquainted with their last events for the past months. He tells her of his very unusual meeting with Silgryn two weeks ago, his barely controlled annoying tone making it obvious to notice his dislike over the situation he endured. She believes him, nonetheless, mostly for his mentions of her uncle being ‘too much of a tease’, certainly so when Illidan shows her a letter afterwards, claiming to be from one of Silgryn’s friends.

Mylenne tucks her head closer to him as she gives the letter a quick read. “Well, I’d say that it looks like you made a friend,” She jests, shrugging casually and not feeling too worried about it as Illidan appears to be.

“Really? That’s all you have to say?” He looks shocked for a mere moment, blinking twice as if confused, “What is it with you Highborne and taking the fact of being spied on so lightly?”

“No, I wouldn’t take this like that if it didn’t come from my uncle or his friends,” Mylenne corrects him, a frown following to assure her point. “Look, it’s just what Silgryn does, alright? He has always kept tabs on me and the people around me... he’s the only one who does, actually,” Her voice unconsciously goes somber as she goes, silver eyes dropping to the table and nowhere in particular.

Illidan hums in thought—or displeasure, she can’t guess—as he tucks the note into a pocket of his jacket. “You say that as if he’s the only one who cares about you,” He concludes, his tone certainly not nice, “… That sounds far from the truth, if you ask me.”

A deep sigh escapes her, nursing her nearly finished drink and hesitating to continue on that line of conversation. She already talked about it with Hargo, not far long than two weeks ago, and bringing the topic of her loneliness and isolation isn’t something she’s looking forward to discussing again—very much less so on a _kal-tora_ party, of all places.

Somehow, her face must have shown it all, for then Illidan continues, “I understand if you don’t want to discuss that, but I’d suggest for you to take a small look around,” A frown narrows his masked, dark-skinned face as he leans closer to her, lowering his voice, “Your… _friend_ , Hargo’then, isn’t the only one willing to be your ally among this people.”

The way he mentions Hargo’s name piques her interest, raising her gaze to him. Although while her curiosity starts nagging her, she decides for a slow, careful approach, “Well, it does seem you know your way around the nobility after a—”

But all her thoughts—as well as her easiness—are brushed aside when another figure approaches their table, “Mylenne, dear! There you are!”

Her heart sinks, face going paler than the very Moon. _Father…_

His glass of Nightwine clanks against the table when he drops it there, making her notice within a moment of awareness how slightly erratic his movements are. So, he must be drunk already—a peering glance at his too-smiling dull eyes confirming it so.

“Good to see you managed to get rid of Lady Ailen’s pestering guards,” Desdel sends a fake smile at her, his voice controlled and neutral even with the state he’s into, looming a little bit further over her and half-shadowing her figure. “I’ve been looking for you, child…”

The fact that he doesn’t acknowledge her companion—so very silent and still, yet intensely focused on the newcomer’s movements—sends an ice cold shiver of dread deep to her insides, pooling around her gut. Mylenne doesn’t need to translate what he just said, the feigned tone of his voice saying all that she needs to know.

That whatever she did that night—singing for their host, mingling around with Lady Ailen, or daring to have a dance with two males Desdel never approved of—he’s not pleased in the slightest.

Doing her best to keep her composure, she stands up without a moment’s hesitation, “ _An’da_ , I… I’m sorry,” Mylenne croaks, quickly clearing her throat and tucking beside him before any further protest from his part, “I must have lost track of time. I guess that we’re going, now?”

“And leaving so early in the night? Oh, but that is such a pity!”

Illidan’s baritone voice clings to her as he stands up as well, a charming smile crossing his lips and growing along with her sudden apprehension. “I have always wanted to meet the Nightsaber of Suramar. Your combat prowess is heard even far into the lands of Ameth’Aran,” He regards her father, facing him with all the easiness in the world.

Her heart goes racing, silver eyes going wide. _What in Elune’s name is he doing?_

“Oh, is that so?” Desdel wonders curiously, a small gleaming in his dull eyes revealing a certain delight with Illidan’s praises, “Myl, dear, I was not aware you were with company. _Alah darnana dor_ , sir…”

“Lord Eradan of House Darkweave. It is an honor, Lord Stareye,” Illidan says as he bows politely, his demeanor—as well as his _lies_ —coming out so naturally, making her blink in no small astonishment, “You must pardon me; I am afraid I could not help with taking your beautiful daughter from you. You have raised a remarkable woman, milord.”

“Ah, _Eradan_ , there’s no need of that…” Mylenne points out, taking precious care in being as subtle as possible with the warning glance she sends to him.

Her hands start to shake with her growing nervousness, trying not to fidget so much with both of the male’s eyes on her. And while she’s getting aware of Illidan’s schemes with her father, she certainly can’t keep her apprehension from taking control of her.

It can’t be anything but _dangerous_ to play along with such a manipulative man as Desdel Stareye. How can Illidan even expect to succeed on this when it had been taking centuries and centuries of efforts from her part, with all ending up to be futile and pointless?

“I was wondering if I may borrow her for some more time, perhaps?” Comes Illidan’s next move, approaching them with that charming smile still narrowing his face, “That, of course, if you do not mind. You see, Mylenne here had turned out to be such a delightful company, and I must admit I cannot grow tired of hearing her lovely voice…”

_Really, praising me to earn my father’s approval? Oh, Illidan, how little you know…_

But her father doesn’t answer right away, a tense moment going by, Desdel’s faked smile seemingly about to disappear as his dull silver eyes roam over Illidan—inspecting his masked face, a nerve on his cheek twitching as if he’s mentally going through all the outcomes, pondering his next move.

_He knows… Oh, Goddess, he’s aware of everything, he’s surely going to call the guards!_

Illidan’s stare on him never falters, his intense gaze locking her father in his spot and smile not even wavering, looking pretty much aware of the nearly palpable tension around them and yet, not backing down by an inch.

Desdel’s sharp jaw tilts up slightly and Mylenne can’t help in reading herself for the worst; she has already endured the consequences of facing Lord Stareye uncountable times before—with Jarod, with Maiev, with Silgryn and even with her _Min’da_.

_Mother Moon, don’t let Illidan take the worst part in this._

A trembling hand rises to her father’s elbow in an attempt to call for his attention, unable to just stand there and be a spectator of that matching stare, her heart already trying to hammer its way out of her chest.

_Please, I implore you! I know I should have stopped this sooner but please,_ please _… just grant me—_

Desdel’s eyes meet hers before she gets to touch him. “Well, how can I refuse after such insistence? And it’d be rude of us not to appease your new acquaintance after all, isn’t it… _dear_?”

_Wait, what?_ “I, uhm, I suppose so…” The words come out of her mouth quite messily, surprise and confusion plain evident in her face. Had the Goddess just _listened_ to her?

More usually than she’d admit, Illidan is there to save her the trouble, outstretching a gloved hand to her and showing his most dashing smile, “Here, let us join my cousin, then,” He lies again, placing her hand over his elbow without a moment of hesitation and casting an elegant nod in Lord Stareye’s direction, “ _Ishnu-dal-dieb_ , milord. You have my thanks.”

It takes quite long to wipe the shock out of Mylenne’s face as they walk away, linked to him once more, though it’s not that she can believe it rather easily. What had just happened?

Had Illidan just achieved the very _impossible_?

A pat on her hand takes her out of her reverie, meeting Illidan’s smile, “You seem surprised. Don’t worry; I rather am as well,” He chuckles, the gleaming in his golden gaze showing how his mood had dramatically bolstered.

The curve of his lips gets contagious, a smirk starting to show from her part, “Are you? And here I just thought you were more confident than me,” Mylenne points out, tilting her head in thought, “Or all of us, actually…”

“Ha! I was _this close_ of casting a charming spell on him!” He laughs, shaking his head as if in disbelief while taking a route outside of the manor, “Probably not my brightest idea, though. It’s commonly known how hardened in magic the Rooksguard is.”

She hums in agreement, taking a moment to ponder about that, leaning further on his arm as they walk down a small set of stairs. A childish fantasy clings to her mind, wondering how it’d turn out if Jarod and Illidan might happen to get into fighting each other—a thought she never dares to voice, however, for she’s not really looking forward to being looked _that silly_.

And the least she wants is to talk about magic, of all things.

Instead, she focuses on another interesting point, “So, _Eradan_ , huh? That remarkably suits you,” Mylenne snickers, her easiness returning as they approach an open gate leading to the backyard.

“Isn’t that right? I thought the same. Seems like I’ve found a fitting alter ego,” Illidan winks, holding the door for her as she walks outside of the manor, leaving the party behind.

* * *

While it’s not the warmest night of the season, Mylenne can’t be any more glad then they reach the gardens, the feeling of the moonlight washing over her way better than the softest of silks.

A soft smile clings to her lips when taking a look around, noticing how peaceful the landscape appears to be; only with the company of some night owls chanting their usual songs, as well as some oblivious nobles on a small bench, relaxing as they smoke from a big pipe.

A cold breeze rises as she waits for Illidan to catch up with her, getting her to rub her arms in a half-unconscious manner—just as half-conscious when she nearly jumps and flinches away when a dark cape is placed over her shoulders.

“That thin gown isn’t going to help you to get warm, anyway,” Illidan says softly from behind her shoulder, delicately pulling her long braid aside and adjusting the fabric for her.

A blush creeps up from her neck to her cheeks, her recently repainted markings pretty much useless to cover it, doing her best to not flush so much with his courtesies. “Well, thank you, _milord_ ,” Mylenne opts for a joke as she turns around, pulling some rebel locks of hair away from her face, “I haven’t really considered—”

The rest of the words escape her when the pale moonlight washes over them both, nearly gaping as her eyes find his handsome and now unmasked face, the silver-white light haloing his head.

When Illidan’s golden eyes meet hers—bright, oh so beautiful and filled with awe—she feels for the briefest of moments, how time and the whole world just… stops. Her vision gets blurry and dark on the corners, but the natural need for blinking never comes, leaving her only with the breathtaking sight of the man before her.

It’s just as stunning as nearly overwhelming, and Mylenne’s not sure if she had ever seen something so _perfect_ before—like the hand of the very Goddess reaching down to stroke them, sheltering them from the world. But his eyes, _oh, sweet Elune_ , his eyes…

She had seen that look once before, that time when he appeared at the Temple, in that particular stormy night; that certain look that made her feel as if he was focusing on the very single thing worth looking at.

So hypnotizing and never faltering, as if he tries to capture every single inch of her and just blinking would ruin everything. So intense and so entrancing, drying her mouth and sending her heart racing wildly, very close to hammering its way out of her chest. That look is like the purest of blessings, making her feel admired, worshiped. _Beautiful._

Mylenne had never, ever felt beautiful under someone else’s eyes.

As if the whole scene wasn’t enough, a delightful smile clings onto Illidan’s lips, right when time appears to get moving again. His grin is genuine, sharp teeth showing without any remorse, beaming at her just as bright as one thousand moons.

He captures her hands in his, “Let’s get out of this place,” Illidan proposes, not really looking up to take a no for an answer, his voice just as excited as his grinning, handsome face. “Come, I got a mount nearby,”

She never offers much resistance as Illidan takes the lead, walking backwards yet having her at arm’s length all the way to the closest exit, “And where are we going?” Mylenne wonders, getting contagious with his eagerness, “What about…?”

“Are you really sure somebody here is going to miss you?” He quirks a cobalt eyebrow, smile widening as if making his point when she doesn’t find a good reply to give.

A fit of girly giggles assaults her, making their way to the streets and stepping into the shadows before getting noticed by the guards or some prying eyes. A group of sabers comes into view when turning to the right, Illidan leading her to one nightsaber with a cerulean, much-adorned saddle.

A sad hum escapes her when she glances at the metallic collar bound with arcane magic around the beast’s neck, the Starweave sigil resting on top of the surface—while it seems obvious that Illidan doesn’t have a saber of his own and that one clearly isn’t his, she can’t help but frown in dislike at the sight of a tamed beast. In her opinion, mighty and clever animals such as them are supposed to roam free among the land and not otherwise.

As Illidan lets her go to undo the knots of the reins, she takes a moment by walking closer to the nightsaber, offering her palm for them to smell. Yellow catlike eyes meet Mylenne’s silver ones, finding some relief when the beast accepts her touch, slightly purring as she strokes their big nose.

“It’s no small wonder to see how attuned you seem to be with beasts such as these,” Illidan enters her line of sight, from the other side of the saber’s head, his features narrowed in seeming approval, “Looks like you never needed a degree in Biology after all, it seems you have a natural talent despite your educations,”

Mylenne sends a knowing look his way, slightly amused with that slip-up, “Huh. You’ve been digging, aren’t you?” She says, although the tone of her voice not really remarks a question.

He only shrugs nonchalantly, looking like not giving it too much thought as they move forward, heading to the streets. “Well, your studies on sabers aren’t really the most interesting thing I’ve found… Public records say you never showed signs of magic,”

The woman can’t help with the annoyed groan coming out from the bottom of her throat. _Why does everything_ always _have to be about magic?_

“Couldn’t that be because I never did? I don’t really see the point, Illidan.” She admits with a rolling of her eyes.

“The point of that being a lie, perhaps?” He points out, stopping in his tracks as they reach the outskirts of the manor, tilting his head at her, “Regardless of that, I’m quite sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks with me, _Mylie_ …”

A snort escapes her with the sultry tone of his voice, teeth running to bite her bottom lip in a silly attempt to hide her incoming blush when his golden gaze briefly roams over her figure. How he always manages to give her a way out and easily switch into his charming persona, she’s sure she may never know—and yet, she’s just as thankful for it as she’s flattered.

In an unconscious move to escape Illidan’s pinning gaze, she deftly hops onto the saber’s saddle, adjusting the hems of her dress a little. The man beside her only chuckles, looking quite aware of what he’s provoking on her, then managing to climb behind her a moment later.

They get into trotting out of the party, a nice self-assurance growing on her when having the chance of taking the reins of the mount. The flushing in the woman’s face never really fades as a _clever_ , dark-skinned hand comes to encircle her waist, a thumb stroking her side, right above her lower ribs.

As the main route comes into view—and with the magnificent buildings from the Highborne’s Court of Stars way left behind—Mylenne slows the saber’s pacing, relaxing further in the saddle and basking in the silence and the slightly cold weather. It's been more than a month since she last transited any other suburbs of Suramar City despite the Highborne main streets, realizing just then how much she missed the playful breeze coming from the forest.

Somehow she can’t help with also pondering how crazy and silly it must look, the fact of her sort of running away with the most handsome man in the party. _Silgryn would have a whole month with that._

“And… what’s so funny, if I may ask?” Illidan’s breath caresses her ear, making it twitch and curve downwards involuntarily, the skin darkening with the blood rushing to her face.

Mylenne tries not to squirm, a little chuckle escaping her nonetheless. “Oh, just in how Silgryn could find the fact of me hanging out with a sorcerer utterly amusing,” She tries for a nonchalant tone, doing her best in keeping her composure.

He snorts, clearly not agreeing with her statement, his shadow revealing the near close to exasperated shaking of his head, “At this point, I should be offended with you and your uncle’s opinions towards sorcerers.” The man confesses, yet somehow keeping it sounding casual.

She sighs heavily with his comment, her glee dying within the next second, “I know, Illidan, and I believe I owe you an apology,” Mylenne admits, glancing behind her shoulder but not really daring to meet his face, “We’ve been definitely rude and it’s not right to throw our prejudices to you as we’ve been doing. It wasn’t my intention and for that, I am sorry.”

“That’s not necessary, I actually don’t mind.“ He replies instantly, as if he’s not up to keep on that line of conversation.

“But you should,” She insists, their mount nearly coming to a full stop, “You have only been kind and nice to me, and—“

The hand on her waist travels to encircle her middle body, gently pulling her further to him. “ _Mylenne_ , that’s certainly the least of my worries,” Illidan assures her, the soft voice close to her ear making her think he’s definitely doing that on purpose. “If anything, I should confess I’m rather more focused in knowing if I can get a chance with you… however little that may be…”

She’s about to say something, but her mind goes blank when sharp canines carefully nibble her sensitive earlobe, breath hitching and a hot surge assaulting her. Clever fingertips travel further down to one of her thighs, sending a small shiver when they find a gap in her dress and come in contact with her skin, the feeling more electric and intense than just a simple tingle.

Illidan’s mouth finds the juncture between her neck and shoulder, only a mere, very prudent brush of his lips against her, yet his warm breath nearly sends her trembling, captured in his arms. Her eyes roll backwards, coming just about to lose control of her body, head lolling back against his chest, so very close to going limp and boneless.

Besides the rapid heartbeat and his hot breathing, there’s another sound rushing to her ears; _something_ whispering her name, calling for her, just as exciting and inciting as Illidan’s attentions. It’s something she can’t really place where is coming from, yet it feels to be all around them—thin as air, warm like the moonlight and… _electric_ , sending goosebumps all over.

He hums in a mix of approval and pleasure and Mylenne’s eyes drift open just barely, sighing deeply but noticing the odd rippling in the air—the arm holding and stroking her waist slightly glowing in purplish colors, a faint mist of arcane magic surrounding them both.

As Illidan’s hand slowly and teasingly travels further up her inner thigh, it’s with the sound of her name coming from his lips—so very tantalizing against her jaw—when the source of the other voice is revealed.

It’s his magic calling—no, not calling but _singing_ to her, chanting her name like… like a prayer; the sound so warm, so soothing, like the voice of the Mother Moon caressing her.

_How is that even possible? I never felt something like this before, not even with another sorcerer like—_

Her silver eyes open wide, breath hitching at the same time that Illidan starts kissing her jaw, hard lips dangerously roaming up to her cheek. It’s when she grips his wrist when he stops, reluctantly pulling back a few inches. “Mylie…?”

_No,_ no _! Don’t do it, you stupid! By the Goddess, just forget about…_ “I’m with Hargo.” Mylenne breathes, deep guilt and frustration assaulting her altogether.

The longest moment of her entire life goes by, her lips pursing as she tries her best to recover her composure and think straight again—if there’s a bare chance to do that. She feels Illidan’s intense gaze beside her, so very still, looking as if she just punched him in the face. “So, what?” Is the only thing he mutters, not moving by an inch.

It takes a huge effort from her to swallow a sob, coming with her growing guilt. “And I… I’m sorry, but I can’t,” She nearly chokes the words, lowering her head in a silly attempt to escape his upset gaze. He’s about to say—or rather to _bark_ —something in return when she continues, “I can’t do this to _you_ , Illidan.”

The man flinches away—that time definitely looking like slapped on the face—confusion narrowing his face. “What? What are you talking about?” He says, a tint of annoyance still in his voice.

Somehow she can’t let go of the hand still placed on her waist, gripping it with both of hers in a silly effort of sending some reassurance—to him as well as to herself. “I… how do I say this?” She muses more to herself than to her companion, looking away as she unconsciously intertwines a hand to his, getting some relief when he allows it.

It’s not that she rejects him out of interest—because it’s rather the complete opposite—but with Hargo in the picture, somehow she can’t let anything between her and Illidan go further. Although what’s worse, is that she’s sure Hargo wouldn’t really mind, given that they’re not at that point that could be considered a serious relationship.

Mylenne and Hargo are only lovers, another one from the fair amount she had and with merely two months of starting seeing each other; and yet, it seems more likely for that to be all they’ll ever be—given their personal circumstances as well as their nature.

However, as their mount turns the corner and faces the outskirts of the city, Mylenne knows deep down that Hargo isn’t the main reason of why she can’t allow… whatever was about to happen with Illidan a few moments ago.

“Illidan, you…” She sighs deeply, thinking she might just voice her thoughts before her own silliness overtakes her, “You have only been kind to me, and always approached me rather nicely. At this point, I believe the least you deserve is my honesty and respect,”

_And so much more than what I can give to you_ , she thinks, though never dares to voice it. “Respect…?” Illidan wonders, a thoughtful hum following. “You’re trying to say you think you’re using me?”

“Maybe I am, I—Oh, Goddess,” She scoffs, never feeling as silly before as she currently is, “What I’m trying to say is I wouldn’t, uhm, _reject_ you if I didn’t care about you, because I really do. You have done so much for me lately, and I… I owe you just as much.”

Another tense moment goes by; his thoughtful silence making her feel itchy and somewhere close to miserable, a hand running through her temples in an attempt to soothe her discomfort. _So much for trying to fix this mess, now you just offended him._

“You just said that,” Illidan muses then, more to himself than for her to hear. She can’t help this time in looking over her shoulder, meeting a golden gaze filled with wonder. “I, uhm, I never heard someone saying they cared about me so… _genuinely_.”

A glint of hope blossoms in Mylenne’s chest, her whole face brightening at the sight—for he definitely doesn’t look upset, nor affronted, but rather more surprised. “Well, so to be clear, I really meant that,” When his face softens some more, one of her hands dares to rise and head for his shoulder, trying to reassure him further, “Though I still have to admit I’m sorry—“

She gets interrupted with the sound of a newcomer relaxing nearby, exaggeratedly clearing their throat. Illidan is the first to break eye contact, his usual deep frown returning straight away as a small growl rumbles through his chest and throat.

“Dear Elune, if that isn’t a sight for sore eyes!” A known male voice reaches them from the sidewalk, a glimpse of dark-violet hair revealing when they step under a street lamp, “Weren’t you already humping another golden-eye, though?”

Mylenne gasps loudly, “Silgryn!” She exclaims, both as a greeting as well as a scolding, eyes blowing wide and face blushing instantly, looking away in an attempt to hide her deep embarrassment, “We weren’t—I’m certainly not _humping_ —“

A cackle from another man announces his appearance, coming straight from the shadows to stand next to Silgryn, “By Elune’s glowing tits! Please, spare us the details, milady!” He tucks his bright green hair away from his face in an extravagant manner, leaning against the other side of the lamp her uncle is resting, “You can keep your coins, Sil. I’m not signing up for those tricky bits,”

A growl of disapproval comes from Illidan at the same time as she huffs, “Oh, that’s it! Hold this, Illidan,” The woman nearly throws the saber’s reins at him as she works in hopping down, Illidan never complaining about it and even helping her to get off with his free hand.

Silgryn fakes an act of trying to protect himself, his amused façade dropping a few levels when Mylenne approaches to the couple of males and punches his forearm not-so-playfully. “Ow, _ow!_ That’s so not fair!” He complains with a pout, backing down a little, “I saved the lad further months of searching for you and this is how I get paid?”  

“Oh, yeah, by _spying_ on me,” Illidan remarks from atop the mount’s saddle, idly pacing around them and seemingly close to making a threatening show with the mighty beast’s paws echoing on the bare grass. “You are not going to find an ally here, Silgryn.” He sneers, glaring at the two males distrustfully.

“In my defense, that’s Arluin’s job, not mine!” Silgryn raises his hands in the universal sign for submission, sending the only woman in the odd party to roll her eyes at him.

The green-haired male clicks his tongue, “Please, I don’t _spy_ , I’m an information trader,” Arluin clarifies, flicking a long index finger in the air as a way to point his statement. “That’s a whole other set up for a job, I’d say,”

Mylenne can’t help with slapping her forehead in annoyance, “That’s still spying, and for some people it’s just rude,” She scolds both the males before her, frowning at her uncle when he snickers at Illidan’s upset state.

Always truthful to his nonchalance, Silgryn gets into a playful banter with his friend about how his line of work can be easily mistaken for one of a spy. Mylenne shares some of her thoughts from time to time, not really feeling that offended as she attempted to look, yet still noticing how worked up Illidan seemed to be when he first mentioned his previous meeting with Silgryn to her. And while she’s aware that probably she won’t be able to repay all the nice things Illidan already did for her, it couldn’t hurt to try and step up for him when the situation demanded it.

Speaking of which, it’s when she glances to him that she notices Illidan not meeting her eyes, looking lost in thought atop his friend’s bound nightsaber. With Silgryn and Arluin’s conversation heating up and more focused on each other, the woman opts to walk to his side, gently resting a hand on Illidan’s knee.

The man doesn’t startle with her touch, but the seemingly forced smile on his face speaks volumes. “I’m still hoping you’re not mad at me,” Mylenne confesses as she looks to his golden eyes, her lips casting downwards when she doesn’t find that usual—and ever-alluring—gleaming on them, “If it counts, I’d still like to hang out with you… but only if you’d like that too, of course,”

“You might want to give me some time,” Illidan replies, still not meeting her gaze and fixed on her hand touching his knee. She’s about to give him some space when, all in a sudden, his hand comes to rest atop hers—as if not really wanting for her to let him go. “But yeah, I’d like that. Although only if you stop disappearing or running out of my sights, _for once_.”

A girly giggle escapes her with his comment, her face brightening and deep relief blossoming in her chest. In a moment of boldness, she unlatches one of the bluish stars adorning her long braid, placing it on his palm without much hesitation—a small and silly token of her appreciation, yet feeling glad when Illidan smiles genuinely at the gesture.

Stepping on her tiptoes, she pulls him down gently to kiss his cheek, doing her best to place her gratitude with the action. “Father is leaving in about a month or so. Perhaps I can look out for you at the Stronghold?”

Illidan captures her free hand then, the usual bright gleaming returning to his beautiful golden eyes, “I’ll eagerly wait for your visit, then.”


	15. Storm, Earth and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some memories of Aedriel Stareye might be inside those walls but, and surprisingly so, there’s also people inside she’s really looking forward to seeing and spend some time with. And lately, he— _no, they_ —really seemed to be worth all the efforts and struggles. 
> 
> So then, when the gates open for her, Mylenne takes a deep breath to regain some confidence and walks inside the Stronghold… one step at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for nudity, depressive themes, and angst!**

** Darnassian: **

**Dalah’dorei** : An endearment. Can be translated to “My child/children” or “Child/children of mine”. Trivia: Despite ‘dalah’ being literal my/mine pronouns, ‘dorei’ doesn’t necessarily refers to a youngster in some cases.

 **Min'da:** Mother.

 **Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang: **Sart(e)**.

 **Erana-dora isil:** May translate to “You have my thanks” or “A thousand thanks upon you”, depending if it’s casual or formal conversation.

* * *

** Stareye **

**Two months later**

As she climbs down from Rak’shareh’s saddle, Mylenne takes a moment by only taking a deep breath, savoring and basking in the cold air from the winter night. It’s been too long since she had the chance of riding her frostsaber, or the opportunity to head to no precise destination, or just being able to walk outside from Highborne streets.

Despite the lovely breeze caressing her features, she doesn’t quite feel it as a victory, although she allows herself the very silver lining she’s given. She may not be _free_ , but for now it’s enough, and Mylenne will take all she can get.

After stroking her saber’s muzzle as an act of appreciation, Shareh’s endearing purr brings her a memory from many—too many—centuries ago, of a night as cold as that one and a pretty much similar view, past the impressive buildings of the Moon Guard Stronghold.

 _“Whatever long the day would be, the Moon always will rise for us,_ dalah’dorei _. Some of us just have to endure a little harder and walk a little longer. You just need to remember that, and to take one step at a time. The rest will sort itself out, I assure you…”_

_“But, uncle Sil… what if I can’t walk the path at all?”_

_“Then head outside and wait for moonrise. I—as well as the Goddess—will always watch over you.”_

Her beast nuzzles her cheek in her own way to return Mylenne’s affections, leaving half of her face slightly wet before walking away, their steps lazy and languid against the humid, cerulean grass. The woman smiles dearly at the beast even when she walks away from sight and deep into the forest, knowing her saber will come back to her whenever she needs to—or even if she doesn’t.

More dark clouds gather with the rising wind, threatening to hide the silvery-white rays from the Moon adorning everything in its reach, some street lamps instantly starting to shine brighter and illuminate the path the moonlight doesn’t touch.

A huge front gate greets her after striding across the main plaza, yet Mylenne hesitates to go further as she gets middle-way from the entrance, tucking her winter coat a little more tightly over her arms for good measure as well as for some mindless reassurance.

This building has been a place her _Min’da_ called her second home—so many centuries past—and the particular place in which Aedriel Stareye started her brilliant career as a sorcerer. Mylenne hadn’t ever visited the Moon Guard Stronghold before, only gazing at the impressive structure built over the mountains from afar, never daring to get that closer as she currently is.

And yet, there she stands. Would it be wise to go further? To walk along the same road her mother once did, uncountable times before? Does she really want to go further? What if she finds something inside she doesn’t really wish to witness? Perhaps some painting of the late Conjurer Stareye she wouldn’t be looking forward to looking at, or perhaps having to submit to answering some questions about Aedriel—given Mylenne’s obvious resemblance to her mother—from some curious, random sorcerer inside those walls.

_One step at a time…_

Right, her uncle’s words have ever been wiser—and sticking to past memories can’t do much but bring pain and melancholy in its way. _And probably I’m overthinking things, as I usually do_. Besides, she hadn’t really trotted for close to an hour and all the way there to only regret it at the very last moment.

Some memories of Aedriel Stareye might be inside those walls but, and surprisingly so, there’s also people inside she’s really looking forward to seeing and spend some time with. And lately, he— _no, they_ —really seemed to be worth all the efforts and struggles.  

So then, when the gates open for her, Mylenne takes a deep breath to regain some confidence and walks inside the Stronghold… one step at a time.

Unfortunately and as she heads for the closest building, it doesn’t take much time before being nearly assaulted by a man in purple robes. “You—! I remember you! Who let _you_ in!?” A voice she barely remembers from a long past time—say, six months ago—sneers at her, making her uncomfortable in a mere instant.

 _So much for daring to come inside_ , the voice of her conscience grumbles in discomfort. “I… I was…” Mylenne tries for words, gaze dropping down in embarrassment and feeling very small in comparison to the man before her, pinning her in place with his angry golden gaze.

“Speak, _lowborn_ ,” The sorcerer continues, raising his chin and straightening in seeming defiance, his voice dropping into a menacing tone, “So to know who I will send to the dungeons for such an atrocity…”

The shadow of a second figure looms over her figure, nearly sending her flinching and her heart to hammer its way out of her ribs. _Goddess, can’t sorcerers be any less_ creepy _from time to time?_

“And the Conjurers wouldn’t be that pleased to find out you’re mortifying a Priestess of Elune, would they?” The newcomer remarks, taking apparent care in revealing his identity as he comes to stand beside her. Luckily, it only takes a moment for the woman to recognize that characteristic midnight blue mane, slender figure and soft features when the second male comes onto her periphery.

“Drop it, Latosius. _I_ let her in,” The man—so blatantly—lies, but Mylenne knows better than to correct him, “And besides, no one can forbid a Sister to bring her blessings to our workplace.”

Once more, the irritated man starts to look like about to burst, face contorting in sheer anger and golden eyes glowing with menacing magic. _If looks could kill…_ , “Is that how you want to play this? Then I hope you are ready for a cleaning week, Mooncaller.” Latosius snarls before darting away, his long dark cloak waving high, chin set higher.

“Eh, always with his empty threats, our lovely Officer _Sar’thera_ ,” Lothrius scoffs, turning to fully face her with that easy smile of his, “Aaaaanyway, it’s nice to see you here! And a lovely surprise! Come, let’s head inside before my toes fall off.”

Mylenne sighs in relief at his easy demeanor, her features softening, “ _Erana-dora isil_ , Lothrius,” She gives her thanks, doing her best to show how much she means it, smiling dearly at the man. But then, she remembers she’s not _that_ acquainted with that particular sorcerer, “Uhm, sorry, that was bold of me. May I call you Lothrius or would you rather prefer…?”

“Ha, sure you can, Sister! Initiate Mooncaller sounds like too much, sometimes,” The sorcerer shrugs off her formalities without hesitation. “Besides, after hearing so much about you lately, it’s like you’re my friend already!”

The woman quickens her pace to walk beside him, holding onto her waving thick cloak as they go across a wide training yard and head to a wooden gate at the far end. “So, I take it you’re friends with Hargo…”

A blue eyebrow rises curiously, holding back a smirk, “What, Hargo’then, you say? Oh, actually all these praises I’ve heard of you came from Illidan,” He laughs nonchalantly—as if he doesn’t really mind to remark that to her, or as if it’s not a secret. “Hargo is way too polite to mention you… or anything regarding his personal affairs.” 

 _From Illidan…?_ She shouldn’t be that surprised as she is, though; two months without neither seeing nor having news of each other are, after all, pretty close to nothing. But still, she’d thought he had rather lost his… _interest_ in her already, or decided to turn a step back at the very least—given his known nature, probably entertaining himself with something or someone else by that time.

However, besides being an interesting thought to ponder about, she never considered snapping or getting angry at him for doing so—if she eventually found her assumptions to be true—for that should be more than fair to her, given the two or three times she rejected his advances.

And it’s also fair—as well as terribly sad if that was really the case—if Illidan wanted nothing to do with her at that point. If anything, Mylenne is completely sure she doesn’t deserve Illidan’s kindness, much less so when she repeatedly and constantly managed to ruin their growing… _bond_.

What did she really do to earn such praises, such acceptance from Illidan and his friends? Are they really _that_ at ease with a seeming stranger as her? Worst of all, how could a pair of _sorcerers_ be at ease with her, a woman who so blatantly expressed her worries and distrustfulness towards magic many times over?

As they come inside a wide hall, the tips of her lavender ears fall downwards with her racing thoughts, not finding any words to say to her companion. _Mother Moon, how could I deserve anything from them? I’ve been so rude already._

Somehow, Lothrius doesn’t seem to notice her growing shame or the shifting in her mood, which is a no small wonder. Illidan always managed to notice her mood swings so effortlessly during their—if short and few—interactions, leaving her the reasonable conclusion of that to be another one of the many perks of being a sorcerer.

Arcane energies are deeply affected by emotions, the aura of a kaldorei being only a manifestation of those said energies—or that’s what the Stareye siblings, Aedriel and Silgryn, had explained to her when she was a child.

She’s not sure if she’s still—so very stuck with her nature—overthinking things or if it’s rather more of her choosing to visit a place she ever stood a feet upon, but as Lothrius leads the way to a large set of stairs and onto an uncountable number of floors above, Mylenne feels her legs heavy and her heart heavier, the whole situation starting to take its toll on her.

Since she had a memory and somewhat grasped how… _different_ she was from similar children of her age, Mylenne never wanted to have anything to do with whatever matters related to arcane magic or sorcery alike. Never wanted to learn, to understand, or to even speak about it—her resolve firmly set after her mother’s disappearance from her life.

And whatever odd route her life is currently taking, as for befriending sorcerers and even bedding one, there’s still that wise voice of her conscience reminding her to not fall to whatever small curiosity she may have. _What’s the point of learning something, anything about magic anyway?_ that little voice keeps reminding her and—after all this time—that still makes sense.

She has been quite fine without dealing with the subject for more than one thousand and five hundred years, the very thought of starting now just falls flat as stupidity, as something completely absurd.

“And here we are,” The friendly voice of her newfound guide takes her out of her reverie, waiting for her to reach the third floor, leaning his side on the railing. “We’re on shift end so you will find them there, second door on the right,” Lothrius points his thumb behind his shoulder, signaling her way across.

Mylenne nods absently in her own way to thank him, her throat a little bit tight and her mind still lost in thought to be able to answer him properly. It doesn’t get any better for her as, unconsciously, her eyes drift across the railing and to the floors below—abruptly going aware of how _high_ the building is, a cold shiver of vertigo assaulting her.

_Goddess, I hate this place so bad. How did I even think it was a good idea coming here?_

Growing eager to step away from the dangerous railing, she strides to the wooden door that Lothrius previously pointed out for her, opening it and heading inside without giving it too much thought.

It’s as she closes the door a little bit too hard when she notices a tall, muscled figure flinching at the noise she makes, sending her jumping with their sudden appearance and the sound altogether. “Oh, sweet _Mother Moon—!_ “ Mylenne curses, her free hand going to her chest.

That room isn’t as lit up as the hallway, the moonlight coming through a big window across being the main source of light, but she doesn’t need as much to notice the tall figure _clearly_ not being who she’s looking for. _Wait… did Lothrius said_ ‘them’ _?_

“Well, here I just thought I might not hear from you until next month…” A deep baritone voice reaches her already flushed ears, her eyes blowing wide in realization as the figure reveals their identity, stepping closer to her and into the moonlight rushing through besides them. “Are you alright, though?”

“You—you can’t creep on people like that, Illidan!” She sputters, still clutching her chest and doing her best to regain some composure, “That’s… well, that’s _creepy_!”

With half of his body still shadowed, he raises his arms apologetically, “Alright, I’m sorry. But in my defense, it’s not like we were expecting anyone,” Illidan admits, slightly shrugging and moving to the side, a hand glowing with bright purplish magic as he works in turning on the candlelight dangling from the ceiling.

With some better illumination, Mylenne then finds out she still has to fight her constant racing heart, unable to keep her silver gaze from roaming over the revealing sight of the man before her. Blood rushes to her face without her having a chance to fight it, glancing at Illidan’s wet hair sticking to his broad shoulders and broader back, dark skin slightly glistening thanks to some remnants of water dripping from his mane and the moonlight shining on the expanse of his body.

She can’t contain herself when she opens her mouth to say something—anything _—_ but no words come out, leaving her with her jaw dropped and gaping ridiculously. But how could she, anyway, when that breathtakingly handsome man now facing her is nearly _bare_ except for a white towel around his waist?

A sly smirk shows on Illidan’s face when he meets her eyes, adopting a cocky posture as he leans his weight in one hip and crosses his arms languidly. “Like what you see?” He says in a sultry tone, golden eyes gleaming with deep amusement.

A nervous chuckle—which sounds more like a pathetic wheeze—escapes her, looking away and rubbing her face in a silly attempt to hide her embarrassment. Goddess, where did she get herself into? A dressing room? Is that a prank from Lothrius? He surely must have known she’d find Illidan inside and in that _very appealing_ state of dressing.

_… Wait, what? What did you just think?_

Fortunately, a distraction appears from the far right corner of the room, meeting another pair of golden eyes who look at her with apparent pleasing. “Myl... What a surprise to see you here!” A bright smile shows on Hargo’s face as he strides past Illidan and to where she stands, looking eager to greet her properly.

Oblivious to Illidan’s hard glare and seemingly uncontained snort—unaware as usual, as he tends to be with everyone—Hargo gently pushes her towards the far corner of the dressing room; snatching her waist before dropping his head and brush his lips against hers tenderly.

Mylenne isn’t really sure if she wants to make out with him—not with some _particular_ witnesses around, that is—but she can’t help with a sigh escaping her mouth as Hargo kisses her, languidly and softly, the absence of his usual headband making some strands of his cobalt hair tingle her cheek.

The tension she’d been developing eases some levels, relaxing with the softness and sweetness which anything but screams Hargo’s name all over. While not really being too many months since they started seeing each other, she has already reached that comforting point in where she doesn’t feel obligated nor forced to do anything but only what she wants. And, oh Goddess, if that isn’t something she has secretly craved for.

As he cups her face with his free hand, knowing how much she likes to be held that way, it becomes impossible to keep reluctant; returning his kiss and trying to show how grateful she is with the motion, allowing that soft tongue of his to brush her lower lip. Hargo’s constant eagerness to just please her—to, somehow, give her the attention he believes she deserves—is something that always sends her heart aflutter, no matter how many times he behaves like that.

That is, also adding the fact of how _easy_ it is, to be around him. With Hargo, she’s not a Sister, not a noble Lady, not a Stareye, sometimes not even a female being courted by a male—she can be only _Mylenne_ and simply enjoy his attentions on her.

She’s not sure for how many decades she’d been craving for a silly, mindless relationship as the one they have, although now that she has suddenly found herself into one, Mylenne can’t be thankful enough for meeting Hargo. It’s been quite a while since someone made her feel as wanted and cared for—that probably being the main reason of why she chose him as her lover, adding another fact of him also making her feel nice and pretty.

… Not _beautiful_ , not nearly _worshiped_ , but pretty is fine for the moment. Mylenne can deal better with feeling pretty.

But when Hargo breaks their kiss, she notices how—in some odd way—fine is not… _enough_. “Is everything okay, sweetie? You seem a little bit tired,” He wonders as he regards her properly, taking a good look at her for the first time in the night.

“I’m good. Just a lot going on in my head,” She half-admits with a shrug, her ankles starting to hurt slightly after stepping on tiptoes for a considerably long time. “I… think I’ll be waiting outside if you don’t mind.” The woman continues as she fully lets him go, rearranging her cloak in an attempt to do something with her hands.

Hargo just nods solemnly, not insisting on keeping on that line of conversation—and, somehow, bringing her to feel a little bit disappointed just for doing so. Yet, she allows the man to give her a peck on her cheek, forcing a smile before he goes to grab a towel, apparently heading to the showers.

She sighs heavily as she turns around, stopping shortly after finding the room empty of people except for her. _Huh, I thought Illidan was still here_ , she thinks, another pang of disappointment tugging at her chest. However, after hearing the sound of water running in the adjacent room, Mylenne decides to go for her former idea, heading to the door and growing eager to leave the building as fast as possible.

It’s when she finds herself in that—too exposed for her liking—hallway when she finds Illidan again, fully dressed in what it seems like his traveling clothes, leaning against the railing nonchalantly.

A deep, concerned frown narrows his face after he meets her eyes. “Somehow, I’m having this feeling of our workplace… unsettling you,” Illidan guesses, tilting his head as if he’s really trying to figure her out.

Her violet brows tilt upwards, blinking in surprise. “Yeah, it is, actually. And it seems you’re the only one who noticed that…” Mylenne admits—fully and truly for the first time in the night—as she goes to lean beside the door she just came out from, not daring to step closer to that dreadful railing, “What gave me away, though?”

“Well, for starters, you’re _flaring_ ,” He points out as if it’s obvious, a hand aiming to her general direction in a lazy movement, “I don’t think it takes too much perception to notice that.” He then remarks with a shrug, his concerned look not really dropping.

With no small confusion, she takes a look at herself, yet she’s not able to see anything different in her skin besides the goosebumps showing in her arms. How does Illidan _really_ notice such details from her, suddenly she’s not sure if she wants to know. “You say it like that, and somehow it seems like every sorcerer in this place except you is… uhm, _oblivious_ to what’s in front of them?” Mylenne notes, wincing a bit with her odd choice of words.

Despite that, she earns a light chuckle from Illidan. “Well, perhaps I am _that_ perceptive.” He prefers to state, a sly smirk showing on his dark lips, looking seemingly pleased with himself.

* * *

**Four months later**

A sharp movement from below propels her awake, a soft intake of breath following as she does her best to flutter her rock-heavy eyelids open. Mylenne yawns lazily, not finding the will to move as her head bobs up and down, a cheek resting over a bare, dark-skinned chest. The sound of Hargo’s steady heartbeats aren’t quite helpful, way too soothing and relaxing next to his soft breathing under her, their tempo sounding like the nicest of lullabies. Neither does help when, in his dazed state, his arms slightly tighten around her, bringing them further closer together.

Her body reacts faster than her mind, arms and legs clinging to the alluring warmth of Hargo’s naked form, snuggling as close as she can and growing willing to just cuddle with him for a little longer. Her lover mumbles something unintelligible, yet he doesn’t give her any indication of returning to the realm of the living, his face burying in the top of her head and her messy hair.

As she climbs further up to hide her face in the crook of his neck, an orange-yellow ray coming from the window briefly blinds her, making her grunt in discomfort as she blinks repeatedly, trying to adjust her sights.

When her eyes meet the view of the rising sun across the window, a sound close to a shriek escapes from her lips, jumping away from the lovely cocoon of Hargo’s embrace. “By Elune, look at the time!” She croaks, her voice rough from the lack of usage.

The man below takes a sharp intake of breath as she moves away, pale golden eyes glancing through crinkled slits. “Mmh… is something the matter?” Hargo mutters, looking too sleepy and drowsy to find the strength to move, his headband hanging clumsily on one corner of his cobalt head.

She can’t help with the funny snort she gives at the sight of his messy state, although she’s aware she might look just the same as him. “I’m afraid our nap turned out to be a very long one, it’s nearly morning,” Mylenne points out while looking for her clothes, stretching across his chest to grab one piece of her undergarments. “Ugh, I just hope I’m not already late,”

Hargo takes some apparent advantage of their position as he raises his head, merely a couple of inches, placing a kiss between her bare collarbones, “Late for what?” He mumbles against her skin, brushing his lips lazily, looking as if savoring the taste of her when a pleased hum follows his words.

However, she doesn’t feel that allured with his tenderness that time, “It’s Maiev’s last night in Suramar, Har.” Mylenne replies in a solemn tone, excusing herself as she sits beside him and starts dressing. “I don’t even know if she already left…”

Her worries prompt Hargo to stop any further advances on her, resting his weight on his elbows as he moves onto a seated position. “You need me to drop you at her house?” He proposes with genuine concern as he helps her with the laces of her bra. “Although you can borrow my saber if you don’t feel like having me around, sweetie.”

“Don’t worry about that, I can take my uncle’s girl if he’s still around.” She dismisses his help way too fast than she’d like, “Come back to sleep. Ugh, where’s the other shoe?” The woman opts for some deflection, looking away and purposely not back to the naked, appealing body stretching over the sheets.

Luckily, Hargo only chuckles back—light and soft, and exactly as she likes. “I think you dropped them next to the door…” He recalls, propelling down and burying himself further in the bed without too much thought.

Mylenne leaves him be, lacing her shoes hastily on her way out of her rented room—yet slowly becoming to be more of a permanent rent, given how many days she tends to spend there— striding to the first floor of Vanthir’s place.

Climbing down the stairs two steps at the time, her uncle lazily waves her hello from his usual seat, sharing some drinks and playing cards with his customary merry band; Arluin and the bar’s owner Vanthir—adding a regular customer and possibly a new member of that odd group now spreading the cards, a bald male named Oculeth.

Silgryn throws Rak’shakar’s whistle when Mylenne asks him for it, catching the wooden object as it flies to her before striding out of the bar hurriedly, the sun threateningly close to rising, barely peeking up from behind the forest trees of Suramar’s outskirts. Fortunately, the frostsaber never complains about the very fast pace she sets, the beast’s paws barely touching the ground as they run to the Shadowsong’s place.

Despite the light ride, Mylenne’s heart visibly drops when the familiar house comes into view, the siblings already accompanied by a caravan of Sisters; Jarod helping out his sister with dropping some traveling bags inside a cart, Maiev’s possessions joining the neat pile.

_So, this is it. She’s really leaving…_

A silver-haired head peeks out and glances at her from behind a smaller saber, her face brightening in recognition. “Myl!” Maiev cries, dropping a bag she was apparently trying to tie to her mount’s saddle and striding in her direction, “I thought you wouldn’t be able to come!”

Mylenne’s throat constricts with the lump forming, dropping down from Shakar’s saddle in a single motion and racing to her friend, the women meeting halfway and burying themselves in the tightest of hugs. Muffling a sob against Maiev’s shoulder, they cling to each other for what it seems like an eternity.

“Shush, my friend, you’re breaking my heart already,” Maiev tries to soothe her as she brings her closer, stroking Mylenne’s violet hair in her so sisterly manner of hers. “It’s not like I’m leaving forever, this is only an initiation. Maybe it goes sideways, maybe the Sentinels don’t even need me, and you will have me back before you notice…”

Another choked sob mixed up with a weak snort escapes Mylenne, her friend’s silly excuses not enough to keep some tears from falling down, “I know, Mai… but still—“ She mumbles, unwilling to let go of her.

Mylenne knows it all, but still, she’s leaving either way. But still, they won’t be able to spend the nights and full cycles stuck together like they were used to. But still, she’s about to be the second kaldorei in their made up family to—in so many ways—move on and forward, finally following her path in life, what everyone knows Maiev Shadowsong was born to be.

“Yeah, I know.” Maiev sighs, no more words needed as she gently extricates herself from their tight embrace, wiping her rebel tears with the back of her gloved thumb and bringing her to Jarod, “I promise I’ll write anytime I can, to you both,” She acknowledges her brother with a tilt of her braided head.

Jarod only nods back. “You better do that…” He grunts, jaw clenched and lips pursed, seemingly unable to meet neither woman’s gaze.

Always true to her near motherly nature, Maiev takes precious care of leaving her friend in Jarod’s protective arms before returning to her assigned saber, tying up some extra bags to the saddle and climbing up with practiced ease. Her silver eyes gleam as she looks at them once more, yet not a single tear escapes them; instead, blinking them back fiercely and throwing her best reassuring smile their way.

Jarod doesn’t cry either, merely swallowing hard and keeping his sister’s gaze as the traveling group gets on the moving, yet Mylenne does—a painful surge of sobs climbing their way out her throat, bright translucent tears falling down her cheeks like a cascade. The reminder of a long past memory clings to her and there isn’t much she can’t do to keep herself from sobbing harder and crying louder; the picture of a violet-haired woman flashing through her eyes as she waves what it turned out to be her last goodbye.

“My offer still stands, Myl!” It’s the last she hears from Maiev as her saber gets on the line, following the group of Sentinels trainees, onto their long route to the small village of Hajiri.

Unable to hold her friend’s gaze any further, Mylenne clings to Jarod’s cotton shirt as if her life depends on it, doing the best she can to muffle her unrelenting sobbing—exactly as she once did with a younger version of the same man, after Aedriel Stareye’s departure, one thousand and five hundred years ago.  

She’s aware of her sheer selfishness that comes with a tint of envy, but if there’s one thing Mylenne never learned—and probably never will—is how to handle with the departure of people she loves the most. First, it’d been her mother, never fulfilling her promise to come back to her as Silgryn did; now Maiev inevitably follows the same route.

Will she end up as Aedriel, being that the last morning she’d see her friend? Or will she make up to her silent promise and return to her side like her uncle?

“This is the first time in two thousand years she’ll be that far away from me…” Jarod sighs against the crown of her head, bringing her closer to his solid chest, his gaze still trained on the road heading west.

“From both of us, in any case,” She corrects his friend, gripping him harder for good measure as the traveling party slowly disappears further into the forest, the noises of huge paws against grass evening out within the next minute. “What are we going to do now?” Mylenne wonders, more to herself than to Jarod.

Only a deep breath follows—the upcoming silence nearly overwhelming as a full minute goes by. “I don’t know, Myl. I sincerely don’t know…”

* * *

**Two months later**

Nothing gets better—and, in all honesty, for Mylenne it feels more like there’s no other way to go but further _down and down_.

With one of the most turbulent storms of the season gathering and clouding the expanse of stars, it’s a good time as any for the woman to escape once more from her activities at the Temple of Elune—that night, with her second usual excuse of ‘hardly believing the Goddess would listen to her prayers’, although that coming to be partially true as of late.

Fortunately, and probably with no small influence from the very unsettling weather, that seems to be enough for her trainer to let her go, if with some reluctance. Still, it’s somewhat relieving for Mylenne to not apply her first usual excuse—her sour moods—and head off the main chambers before her trainer feels like regretting anything.

As she strides out and walks down the long marble stairs of the Temple, the first splotches of rain reach her face and thin robes, the water feeling like a smacking and a washing altogether. It only takes a matter of seconds before getting completely wet under the unrelenting storm, her tight violet braid dripping water down her chest and going heavy as a wooden log, eliciting an uncomfortable grunt out of her as she brushes it off her shoulder to set against her back.

Her sandals stain with dark mud as she heads to the other side of the street, and Mylenne isn’t sure if she could feel more _utterly miserable_ as she currently is.  It turns out that, as the woman blindly finds some shelter under a tree across the street, her downcast state isn’t quite the main reason of the tears threatening to come down her cheeks, eager to join the rainwater.

It’s more because she doesn’t remember the time when she had felt absolutely, completely… _alone._  

Jarod had been again deeply immersed in paperwork and recruit training at the Black Rook Hold, probably finding the distraction he needs with burying himself in his job; something Mylenne silently envies, for she could really use that sort of diversion. Silgryn, on the other hand, got away on a sudden business trip into the lands of Vashj’ir a week ago, claiming something about repaying some favors from his friend Arluin.

Hargo had been very busy as well, after being assigned with longer patrols at the construction of the new Harbor—recently acquired by Duchess Astravar—since the last month. Mylenne can hardly blame him for his current lack of free time, however, because she knows that new assignment to be a golden opportunity for her lover to climb further up in his career.

Besides, she can hardly snap at anyone for doing what they love the most or following their path in life. _Or for doing what I can’t, for that matter_ , she considers bitterly, a lump forming in her throat as she hugs her knees and buries her face between her thighs.

The tears she had been holding all that dreadful night—without not even the soothing singing from the sweet Sister Thania being able to comfort her—finally find their way out, the entirety of her body trembling with the force of her crying, sobs muffled thanks to the violent gushes of wind.

_Oh, Mother Moon, how strongly do I wish for you to hear my pleas. I can’t go on like this… I just can’t keep going like this anymore…_

With the tempest settling around even more turbulently, she’s not sure if mere minutes or long hours go by. Yet, somehow, through her own wailing and the howling of the storm above, her ears twitch when hearing the noise of splotchy steps coming to where she lies; a shadow forming even with the very dim light of the streets. The woman doesn’t find the strength in her to glance at the newcomer, hoping deep down to be left alone and deal with her own miserable state if she doesn’t acknowledge them.

However, the figure dares to get closer. “Alone in the rain?” They wonder, their deep, near baritone voice echoing around them thanks to the wind, “Do you mind if I join you?”

Mylenne would bark something at the newcomer if she really had the strength to do so, but the only thing she can do is to crane her neck to the side as the male comes to sit beside her before she replies anything. A very recognizable face appears from under a thick traveling cloak, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her—although when his bright green mane comes into view, she can’t certainly do much to keep her features from looking as disappointed as she is.

“Please, forgive my intrusion, that would certainly be the least of my intentions with coming here,” Malfurion Stormrage excuses himself in his characteristic polite manner of his, although having some decency of giving her some personal space. “I guess it is better for me to be direct and just ask: Do you wish to talk?”

“About what, of all things in this world?” Mylenne replies with some bitterness, merely glancing at him through her wet lashes.

A deep frown narrows Malfurion’s dark face, yet it doesn’t seem to be enough for him to keep his respectful insistence, “About what is on your mind as of now.”

A scoff mixed up with a choked sob follows his words, “Perhaps you only need to take a good look and see for yourself.” Mylenne snarls, resting her chin on top of her knees when it seems obvious she’s not going to be left alone to lick her wounds as she intends to.

Although she knows she should be more modest and not really show her awful state to an acquaintance such as Malfurion, her sense of dignity is certainly the last of her current concerns and something she really doesn’t worry much about—not when her whole body couldn’t be any wet and drenched, her deeply flushed face and swollen eyes coming to be just a mere detail in her disastrous picture.

And yet, it just takes as much for the male to unlatch his cloak, curling a little closer to her in an attempt to offer some shelter from the rain under the thick cover, “I see a woman alone in the wilderness, looking… despaired, hopeless,” Malfurion says solemnly, silver eyes gleaming in evident empathy, his face softening in apparent relief after she doesn’t flinch away, “I can serve as a friendly ear, if you wish for me to do so.”

Despite her sheer soaked state, Mylenne actually feels completely _drained_ from any will, not even having the strength to talk about the million despaired thoughts running on her mind. And so, she doesn’t fight it when her body acts on its own accord and leans against Malfurion’s side, unconsciously looking for some comfort in the warmth of his—also drenched—figure.

The male takes care of bringing her further under his cloak, offering his shoulder for her to rest her head on, remaining silent after her unwillingness to speak her mind. A considerable amount of time goes by with the unrelenting storm as their only companion, Mylenne’s tensed and tired body relaxing only slightly against the Stormrage twin’s loose embrace.

That is, until her gaze travels to the corner of the street and finds the unmistakable figure of the _other twin_ , so very still on the saddle of his borrowed saber… looking back at them.

Mylenne blinks forcefully, believing at first to be a silly product of her imagination, yet the picture of him don’t seem to fade—or it worsens, somehow, when the dim lights of a street lamp briefly reflect his face, his golden eyes narrowing in evident _anger_.

“Illidan…” She croaks, already feeling those rebel tears returning with full force. She has seen that look on his face before, and having to recall it again can’t do anything but break her heart in a hundred, thousand pieces.

“What about him? Did he do something wrong?” Malfurion wonders with no small naivety, somehow not acknowledging the figure intensely glaring at them from the street ahead.

She certainly doesn’t know why he seems to be so _utterly enraged_ , yet she can’t help but follow her instincts as she extricates herself from Malfurion’s shelter, her heart racing and pounding against her ribs as she stands up, uncaring of the rain hitting her face.

But Illidan doesn’t wait for her approach; instead, his face tautens even harder—nose scrunched and lips pursed in full disgust—as he grips the reins of his mount, turning back from her and his oblivious brother, trotting away without a second thought.

“Illid… _Illidan!_ ” She calls for him, her voice echoing on the road ahead.

And yet, despite her cries, he doesn’t turn back, disappearing under the unrelenting storm in a mere minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, yeah... I'll be running away now before someone decides to throw sharp objects at me .____.  
> I'M SORRY OKAY, I PROMISE NEXT PART WILL BE GOOD, I SWEAR! *hides behind Silgryn*
> 
>  **EDIT:** [Here's a message - or disclaimer - from me regarding this chapter](http://hoxadrine.tumblr.com/post/157634845229/disclaimer)


	16. Tormented Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his mount growing tired, Illidan hops off and paces around the empty surroundings. “I’m talented enough to put the late Conjurer Stareye to shame if that’s my wish! What did _he_ do, instead? What does _he_ have?”
> 
> The ground trembles with the next booming thunder… or perhaps it’s his own body what’s trembling; his racing heart suddenly missing a beat as the answer comes down to him way too painfully, way too overwhelming.
> 
> _Everything you always wanted…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for heavy angst, dark and depressive themes.**

** Darnassian: **

**Shan'do:** Honored Teacher.

**Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang: **Sart(e)**.

**Thero'shan:** Honored student.

**Arane:** A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for “nightmare/s”.

**Min'da:** Mother.

(Trivia) **Moon Priestess:** A branch from the Sisterhood of Elune dedicated to caring for the young, serving as nursemaids, caretakers, midwives or nursing mothers.  

* * *

** Stormrage **

Of all situations and events he’d been expecting that night, Illidan is completely sure he hasn’t thought about that one happening. Like an element of the equation being sloppily forgotten, or more likely like something he never considered at all. And yet, just as the storm crashing upon them, that invisible element turned out to punch him in the gut with the grim reality of it all.

Mylenne and Malfurion. His brother and… her. Taking shelter together under a tree, him apparently bringing her some solace.

_… Snuggling._

How dare he? For the love of all that’s holy, _how dare he!?_ Hadn’t been enough with having all the praises of their _Shan’do_ when they were young, with being better than him in almost everything, with having Tyrande’s heart—now he just had to go and… meddle around with Mylenne? With that same woman _he_ had placed his eyes upon first and has been publicly known so far he’s interested in? He just _had_ to find him with Mylenne Stareye, of all women in Suramar?

Is there something, anything Malfurion Stormrage touches that he doesn’t _spoil?_

His ears twitch with the sound of Mylenne crying out his name, but when that tender and so lovely voice of hers usually worked in soothing his thoughts, in that moment it just feels like a _thunder_ —further igniting something in him he believed he’d solved before riding to the Temple.

And so, Illidan gallops away in a mere moment, overwhelmingly eager to place as much distance as he can from the only two kaldorei around and below the unrelenting tempest. _How dare he? My own brother… How dare_ he _?_ His head pounds with the same questioning, a hot spark growing and taking place inside his chest, threatening to swallow what’s left of his rational mind.

A howl escapes him, deep from the bottom of his throat, climbing up and away as if spitting fire; the arcane barrier previously cast to shelter him from the rain flaring violently, furiously, in bluish waves.

His collared mount doesn’t seem to pay mind to his rage, ever so obedient, its massive paws splashing against dirty mud as he rides without any destination at all. Yet not even its impassiveness works into calming Illidan’s growing incensed state, forcing the beast to go faster and run into the woods.

As hours go by, he can’t believe the irony, the very joke of it all—all those months invested into gathering some courage, into setting up his resolution of making amends with his brother, believing to be awful and useless to have grudges with his own blood relative… to being spit in the face like the biggest of fools.

“Because I really am the biggest of _sarte_ , aren’t I?” He fumes to the humid air around him, a loud thunder rolling up above as a reply. He had genuinely believed for Malfurion’s actions to be oblivious and silly, more from a naïve nature rather than intentionally—yet constantly—insulting him with that _oh so friendly_ behavior of his, but now? “Now I know he just doesn’t care...”

_Isn’t it funny how some people consider_ you _the beguiler?_ The voice of his dark thoughts resurges, nagging and pricking inside his mind. _It seems that people haven’t met Malfurion after all, and you’re just simply his_ thero’shan _…_

A deep growl follows in reply to that voice, his hands glowing and flaring angrily. “And that just fits perfectly, now isn’t it? Forever fated to walk among the great Malfurion Stormrage’s shadow,” Illidan snarls, lips pursed in sheer disgust—repulsed with everyone he knows, with everything, with _himself_. “As if I don’t deserve any better already…”

_Any better? Ha! Now,_ that _is funny_ , the inside voice laughs bitterly, tauntingly—carrying the too familiar whispers of the arcane all around. _Anyone would believe you haven’t learned anything in all these years in this city._

“I did learn! I did grow and worked my very ass off in being better, in _getting_ better,” He barks, shaking his head violently, uncaring of his already tousled hair, “I’m near to be a Spellcaster, and one of the most-skilled the Moon Guard ever had! I honed and improved my magic in ways my brother can’t even dream of!”

The forest lit up for a mere moment as a lightning bolt strikes up above, thick gray and blackish clouds unsuccessful in hiding the inevitable coming of dawn. With his mount growing tired, Illidan hops off and paces around the empty surroundings. “I’m talented enough to put the late Conjurer Stareye to shame if that’s my wish! What did _he_ do, instead? What does _he_ have?”

The ground trembles with the next booming thunder… or perhaps it’s his own body what’s trembling; his racing heart suddenly missing a beat as the answer comes down to him way too painfully, way too overwhelming.

_Everything you always wanted…_  

The roar Illidan throws to the void comes out with the force of an exploding volcano, the entirety of his body glowing in dangerous shades of purplish-blue, his rage so palpable that the very land seems to surrender to his temper—the forest enclosing in silence, not even a single breeze daring to get near him. Arcane magic pours out of him like poison; mists of dark energy drifting in forms of twisted tendrils, the nearest old oak tree catching fire in the mere second the mists reach its branches.

The fire spreads all around him, catching everything that happens to be near him in violent flames, Syrana’s saber jumping away and keening in sudden panic. Besides the cries of his only living companion, Illidan remains still, his twisted gaze fixing on the destruction his magic provokes in its wake, blazing fire leaving anything but thick ashes behind its path.

Soon, it all becomes a seeming battle of wills—him against the force of the storm, against the stillness of the forest, against everyone and everything he once held true. Dark smoke rises up to the sky, joining the tempest clouds and shading the weak and pale coming of the sun.

It’s only after his mount bolts and runs away from him when Illidan snaps out, somehow; a quick motion of blinks following as he adjusts his sights, slowly gauging in the damage he had done. He really can’t blame for the beast leaving him to tend for himself, his eyes blowing wide at the sight displayed before him.

“Elune have mercy on me…” He barely croaks, his throat feeling raw and damaged; just as damaged as his warped state of mind.

So—after managing to grasp a mere inch of willpower—he runs away as well, desperate to place some distance between the landscape he just destroyed, between the crime he committed, between the deep shame that now tugs at his chest for losing the control of something he always claimed to manage so masterfully.

_Why do you bother?_ The poisoning voice follows him along as he makes a sprint to Meredil, the raging tempest also behind his tracks, menacing and growling. _You can’t run away from what you really are._

“No, no! Stop it!” That is not and never was what he wanted—and he may be a horrible man, but he wouldn’t ever let anything bad happen to the ones he cares of, not if he had a say on the matter. “This isn’t who I am! This isn’t who I want to be!”

_You’ll either destroy or drag everyone away from you regardless if you want it or not. It’s pointless to resist…_

“Stop it! Leave me!” Illidan cries, speeding up until his dirty boots merely touch the ground, but still, not even his racing heart or the adrenaline coursing through him works into quiet his warped mental state, somehow.

For another hour he runs, desperate to work his brain into a shutdown, panting and with limbs aching yet still forcing himself to go faster; preferring the physical pain rather than anything else—that pain, at the very least, is probably the only thing he can claim to be his own. Malfurion’s humble house comes into view as he reaches the cobblestone streets of Meredil, a small dim of candlelight casting from the nearest window revealing of people inside those walls.

Resentment comes back at him with full force, bile climbing up his throat. So, while he had been trying to deal with his sheer miserable state, battling against his volatile, toxic hatred somehow, Malfurion had been at his home all along, going around his life as usual? As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened with his _twin brother_?

His pacing slows drastically, a hand running through his tousled hair, nearly pulling at it. Does his _hatred_ have an ending point? How much does he need to endure before a tragedy happens? For Illidan can’t be any surer with the fact of himself growing to despise anything related to Malfurion—but with hating his own brother, the only blood relative left in his life, he knows he’s bound to also hate himself more.

As if his feet had a life of its own, he comes to a full stop after he captures a glance of another kaldorei across the street, looking to be the only one around and below the never-ending storm. He blinks forcefully, at first not believing what his eyes are seeing, but the figure doesn’t fade or either move from their spot.

Mylenne… Mylenne _arane_ Stareye is at his door, her robes completely soaked, head buried between her knees and with her back resting on the side of her massive frostsaber. Nimble arms and drenched violet hair covers the delicate features of her face, the trembles of her body seen even from Illidan’s position.

_How did she get there? Did Malfurion lead her to my place? What sort of sick joke is this?_

With nostrils flaring, he storms towards her, visibly tensing and preparing to face the woman sitting beside his front door. “You just sorted out the wrong house,” Illidan says dryly, keeping an impassive face as he looks below, “ _I_ live here, _he_ is across the street.” He stabs a thumb behind his shoulder, also with evident intentions of signaling her to move.

_Isn’t this_ just great _? The very least I need right now is to deal with Mylenne, for Elune’s sake!_

But it’s in the moment when he decides to walk past her when Mylenne lifts her head, showing a flushed face drenched in tears. “I… I was looking for you, Illidan,” She croaks, flinching after meeting his hard gaze. Recoiling, she then rubs her face frantically with both palms, moving to wake up her sleepy saber. “Though apparently, I haven’t considered that you wouldn’t want to see my _pathetic_ face as of now,”

They don’t have to look at each other for Illidan’s hard façade to shatter all of a sudden, wincing at her sharp choice of words. His hand hovers over the slightly invisible rune keeping his front door locked, pondering his options for the heaviest of moments.

_Elune curse you… and me as well…_

“Come inside, before you catch a cold,” _Before I regret it_ , were his original words, but something seemingly prickles inside him, keeping him from being a mere insolent.

She sends a small snort in his general direction, “As if I were looking to abuse of your great hospitality,” Mylenne deadpans, standing and removing some wet hair away from her face before returning to her mount, her voice still weak and wavering. “It’s probably better if I get going…”

“And it’ll be rude of me not to get you inside with this weather still around,” He opts to insist, not taking the unconscious opportunity he’d just been given. He rolls his eyes when she keeps on her task of waking her beast, growing annoyed just as easy. “I’m definitely not in the mood for games, so just humor me, Mylenne.”

She flinches again at his snapping, taking a full minute of hesitation before obliging, shoulders sagging down and nearly dragging herself into his living room. Illidan holds the door for her as patiently as he can, a cobalt brow quirking up in curiosity when, from his periphery, he takes a fleeting look at the dim lights inside Malfurion’s home flickering off. _He must be behind all this,_ he can’t help but ponder about, glancing suspiciously at the soaked figure pacing frantically near his kitchen.

Sighing heavily, he internally counts to ten in an attempt to summon all the tolerance he can muster, then closing the door and disposing of his barrier with a flick of his wrist. “Give me a moment while I get you something to dry,” He then strides to a linen cupboard, placed under the stairs leading to his bedroom, sorting between sheets and towels, intently focusing on the meaningless task.

However, the woman doesn’t seem to be going easy on him. “Ha! Aren’t you going to throw a drying spell on me or some magic like that? Just like everyone else would do?” Mylenne grumbles from the living room, looking dangerously close to making a hole on the floor if she intends to keep her frantic pacing.

“So I get to listen to your rants about sorcery for hours, then?” He remarks, not bothering to spare another fleeting glance and grabbing a pair of thick cotton towels from the top shelf. “But that’s what you really wish, isn’t it? Did you just come here for a fight?”

Illidan doesn’t know why he asks about what’s most obvious—or why he opted to let the woman into his house in the first place—yet his comment seems to be enough for Mylenne to react, stopping short and stomping her leather sandals against the wooden floor.

“I came here because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go!” She shouts, her lavender face contorting painfully, silver eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Her weeping, flushed face isn’t enough to make Illidan snap out of his own distressful state. “Oh, so now I’m your last option available. How _nice_ and _sweet_ of you, Mylenne…” He barks back, faking a bright smile as he goes around the room, procuring more fire on the chimney with a flick of his fingers.

Mylenne gapes at him, lilac lips trembling and limbs shivering, seemingly doing her best to come up with words. “Goddess, I was so wrong in coming here,” She breathes, running her hands through her dripping wet hair, glancing at the door as if considering making a run for it, “I can’t believe how stupid I am… I can’t believe I’ve been thinking—”

“Oh, you’ve been _thinking_? About what, exactly?” He wonders with a mocking tone, turning to face her, pinning her in place with a furious glare, “Because if I recall correctly, you haven’t replied my last letter and you haven’t shown the faintest interest in keeping seeing each other, but you oh so suddenly decide to visit after I get to see you… snuggling with _my brother_ ,” He nearly spits his last words, nose wrinkled in sheer disgust.

A torrent of tears starts running down the woman’s cheeks, staring at him in sheer astonishment. “So now you get to be mad at me for _this one man_ who tried to comfort me somehow?” Her face flushes even further, looking shocked to the core, “For _this one person_ who got to see how miserable I am?”

The sight of her near despaired state makes something inside him clench painfully, and yet, his retort comes out without him being able to stop it. “And you just _adore_ getting everyone’s attentions, don’t you?” Illidan snarls, trying to figure her out as well as growing repulsed with himself and his awful assumptions. Despite his awareness of being a complete insolent, he still can’t find the will to stop—his jealousy getting the better of him. “From your warrior friend, from my Officer, _from me_ and now from my brother, am I missing someone?”

“And what’s even the point of that if never in my whole life I’ve felt so _alone!?”_ Mylenne shouts, her face completely distorted and flushed—but her usually tender voice also comes out deeply twisted, _warped_ , as if a thunder has just struck inside his living room.

Illidan is left holding back a gasp, one towel on his hand dropping to the floor unceremoniously, going frozen where he stands as—all in a sudden—the foundations of his house start _trembling_ , like a foot the size of a tree had just stomped the ground nearby. His eyes blow wide, unable to do anything but stare at Mylenne’s magic aura flaring violently, bright as a beacon and nearly blinding him.

A surge of dread strikes through him, pure shock narrowing his face. _What in Elune’s name is happening?_

“Don’t you see I need—why can’t you—“ Mylenne cries, but she stops shortly, both her hands running to her throat, her flustered face going pale in a mere moment, “Oh, Goddess… I can’t—“

“Mylenne…?” He murmurs, not finding his voice, gaping in horror at the woman before him, her display of magic so overwhelming and unlike anything he had ever seen before. It’s as she falls to her knees when he snaps out, panic gripping him like the strongest of vices. “ _Arane… Mylenne!_ ”

Throwing the remaining of towels he’d been holding, Illidan outright jumps and drops next to her in the flash of a second, although not being that bold to touch her just yet. Raw magic pours out of her as if being desperate to escape her body, the ground shaking and furniture floating with the sheer force of her arcane energies, all spread around the room. In an act of reflex, Illidan casts a barrier over them both, their clothes and manes swaying brusquely as Mylenne’s magic seemingly struggles to get through and away.  

She still grips her throat frantically, wheezing and clawing at her skin in an act of desperation. “I can’t—Illidan—“ Tears run down her cheeks like a river, struggling for breath like a fish out of the water.

He knows he’d be crying too—if it weren’t for the overwhelming panic currently coursing through him. Yet the sheer guilt for provoking such a thing as a panic attack on her becomes even harder to bear. “Please forgive me, I never meant what I said, I…” Illidan shakes his head sharply, his voice wavering, “Please, breathe, Mylie… _come on!_ ”

“I can’t—I’m—“ A hot surge of magic flares out of Mylenne’s skin, coming onto him like a sharp slap in the face, sending him groaning and his barrier nearly faltering. “It hurts so—“

The side of his face starts stinging, yet somehow Illidan manages to fight back the unending, violent waves pouring out of her. “Focus on me!” He pleads, leaning closer to her small, curled up figure, frantically searching for her face. Silver eyes brimming with tears finally look at him through crinkled slits, “I’m here, I’m here… now follow my lead,” He starts inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly, prompting her to imitate his breathing.

He can see her genuinely trying to imitate his movements, but all he gets is a wheezing sound coming out of Mylenne’s lips, making her clutch her throat even harder, tears falling quicker. Something about her magic keeps warning Illidan to not even consider touching her, her aura flaring and pouring out of her so brightly that the mere idea of grasping something so _pure_ can only send wide alarms to his brain.

_Should I dare to do so now? Goddess, what should I do? I can’t just keep watching her like this!_

But… _he had_ touched her before—a year ago, to be more precise—and while it had been dangerous and incredibly imprudent of him to dare tasting a mere inch of her magic, nothing tragic had really happened. And even without that reminder, it may be better to, at the very least, do something and then deal with the consequences later.

_“You’ll either destroy or drag everyone away from you regardless if you want it or not.”_

Illidan’s breath hitches, his heart missing a beat. No, that’s not who he is, that’s not who he’ll ever wants to be—and he wouldn’t ever let anything bad happen to the ones he cares of, not if he had a say on the matter.

So he dares, not giving it a second thought, his barrier dropping as his hands travel to grasp hers, still clutching and clawing at her throat. But in the mere second his fingertips come to brush between her collarbones, a sharp jolt of electricity rushes through his hand, making him gasp loudly. Somehow, he doesn’t remove his hand right away as a familiar tingle climbs up his extremities—yet this time, it comes along with an odd sense of warmth, spreading through his body like spider webs, taking place in his chest as a final destination.

The longest of moments go by… until Mylenne takes a deep intake of breath, her chest filling as if being the very first time she uses her lungs. When her bright aura recedes to her normal state, sheer relief washes over him, sighing deeply as his hands opt to settle over her shoulders, his own hunching down tiredly.

Slow and steady, her normal color returns to Mylenne’s skin, her chest going up and down heavily. “How did you… Goddess, that was…” She tries for words, leaning into him and looking terribly exhausted, almost as how he is.

“Ssh, just breathe, alright? You almost gave me a heart attack, there,” Illidan gets on her eye level, sitting properly and bringing her closer to his chest, struggling against the sudden need of bringing her flush against him. “Did I hurt you?” He can’t help but ask, although keeping from voicing the real questions nagging at his mind.

What did just happen? He has ever seen such display of magic in his whole life; not certainly a powerful one but… different—the very core, the very source of it quite difficult to relate to his own arcane affinity. Dangerously unstable and bright, yet purer than anything he had ever seen nor grasped before; somehow still arcane in its base, but savage, unadulterated, as having a life of its own.

“That… that was the nicest thing I’ve felt in decades,” Mylenne then whispers against his chest, not so cold and soaking wet anymore, her breathing doing a funny thing to his insides as it fans close to his sternum.

A relieved hum escapes him, allowing himself to bring her slightly closer now that he knows he hasn’t harmed her, “You need me to try that again?” He prompts, not quite sure _how_ he’d do that, but the thought of being somewhat helpful is what mostly motivates him.

“No, I don’t need that. I—“ Shaking her head, the woman makes a visible effort of moving, lifting her gaze to meet his, her beautiful lavender face still with remnants of tears, “I need a _friend_ , Illidan. I need you to _hold me._ ”

Her words speak volumes about her current state, her voice carrying so many meanings behind that—as their gazes lock onto each other—Illidan’s face softens drastically, instantly, his heart nearly melting at the sight.

_That’s what she’d been looking for all along,_ he realizes, deep empathy coursing through him as he moves to wrap the back of her legs and shoulders. The same thought as the one he had a year ago comes to him again, still unable to figure it out. _How could someone so beautiful be in so much pain?_

“Yeah… I can do that,” He whispers against the crown of her violet head, clinging to the ever so soothing feeling of her presence and her familiar scent of lilies, just as thirsty for the very little comfort he can get as she is.

Carrying her as tenderly and carefully as he can, he brings her close to the chimney’s fire, propping himself down to sit on the floor, placing her upon his lap. Her loneliness, her miserableness, all her dark feelings are so palpable at their close distance that—for the tiniest of moments—he fears to get overwhelmed as her buzzing aura keeps brushing his skin; exhausted and fainting, yet steady, like the beating of her heart.

Crossing his legs and with his back resting against the feet of the sofa, Mylenne gets on telling him everything that happened the last two months without seeing each other. How heartbroken she’d felt when her childhood friend left for a post among the Sentinels, how her friend’s brother seems to be falling apart without his sibling, isolating himself into his work. And while Illidan may not have the best of sentiments towards the Shadowsong warrior and Priestess, he can certainly understand—and relate to—the pain of the distance from those one cares the most.  

Mylenne also comments on how her uncle and _lover_ —which Illidan knows for sure he may never get used to her and Hargo’then’s state of relationship—are currently absent, immersed onto their jobs and tasks as well, apparently oblivious to her highly unstable emotional state. From Silgryn, Illidan can also relate, if unlikely; for even with this growing loathing he’d been building towards Malfurion, the sudden inability of not relying on his only blood relative can’t be anything but painful.

Rebel tears escape from her eyes once more as she then explains how she’d been spending her nights either sleeping or praying, but not even the Goddess appears to listen to her pleas—and judging by the slight bitterness in her words, never quite did.

_Just as Elune never listened to me either_ , he can’t help but admit to himself, cradling her close to his chest, struggling against the painful clenching of his heart that comes with her words.

Eventually, Mylenne stops nearly _vomiting_ her frustrations and fears to him, clinging to his vest in a seemingly unconscious search for physical warmth. “I really shouldn’t… I’m sorry for bringing this to you, Illidan. I’m sorry for this mess, for your bro—“ A sharp shaking of his head prevents her from recalling that particular topic, stopping short and sighing tiredly, “I’m sorry for being nothing but a nuisance to you. You don’t deserve this from me.”

Illidan leans away a couple of inches, “You’re not a nuisance, Mylie. Not to me, not to _anyone_ , you hear me?” He assures, lifting her chin with the back of his thumb and looking straight to her eyes to affirm how serious he is. When a hopeful little smile shows on the woman’s lips, he can’t help but continue, “Although I’m afraid you haven’t picked the… _nicest_ companion to help you out, I think,”

“But I can listen too, that’s the least I can do,” Mylenne tries to reassure him, straightening a little bit to get to his eye level. “Even more so, I _want_ to hear you out. And you can tell me anything you want to vent out, you know? Is there something I can do for you?”

He ponders about telling her everything that has been crossing his mind for a moment, but the will to speak never comes. “No, you can’t, I’m sorry. To be more honest, _I can’t,_ ” He confesses, his nose creasing at the mere thought of recalling the mess that is his own life. “I promise you some night I’ll tell you, but I guess that’s my own battle to fight as for right now…”

Mylenne nods in apparent understanding, a sympathetic look plastered on her lavender face. “Alright, then,” One of her small hands travel to untie his tousled ponytail, first searching his face for permission, her features brightening as he leans his head to give her a better access. “Uhm, would you do something else for me?” She wonders, a tint of innocence in her voice, “Would you… sing to me?”

“I don’t _sing_ ,” Illidan nearly deadpans, tilting his head a little bit to send a half-amused glare in her direction, yet still allowing the woman to let his hair loose.

“And why don’t you?” She fakes a pout, running her fingers through his cobalt mane, bringing some strands to rest over his shoulders and on his chest, “That can’t be anything but a _tragedy_ , with that lovely voice of yours…”

“Ha, as if you needed to flatter me,” He smirks, leaning his head back and taking a moment to consider the idea. “Well, the only song I can recall right now is one our Moon Priestess used to sing to me and—“ A small snort follows, reminding himself to not bring the topic of his brother in any way, “It’s silly, though, and I wouldn’t say it being particularly… cheerful,”

“Sounds fitting already,” The woman shrugs, settling against his chest once more, idly toying with the tips of his mane.

Silence falls upon them for some minutes, Illidan staring at the flickering fire from the chimney, pondering over the idea. He never tried for singing, or ever considered the thought of doing it as many of his friends and acquaintances did. In his mind, singing has always been an activity more fitting to Priestesses, young noble Lords and Ladies, and local jesters or entertainers.

However, his _Min’da_ used to sing when she was in a particularly sour mood, way back in his childhood years. A sense of nostalgia washes over him as he remembers some past nights at Val’sharah, with _Min’da_ idly humming in their small, humble kitchen as she prepared the meals for them—her bright green mane tilting side to side as she sang, somehow oblivious of her elder son secretly listening to her, sitting at the top of the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

_Min’da_ always sang when she was near her lowest—it couldn’t hurt for him then to at least try, isn’t it?

So, Illidan takes a deep breath in an attempt to find some encouragement, closing his eyes and focusing on recalling what the late Moon Priestess used to sing to him before his sleep.

_“Across the sea to you, I've left myself deserted here again. Across the sea to you, my pieces are too broken now to mend,”_

Mylenne smiles below, looking evidently delighted, cradling closer to his body and resting her head on his broad shoulder, soft breath fanning near his collarbones. As he goes on, she gets on idly working on making small braids with some strands of his hair, silently prompting him to continue.

_“In the middle, under a cold black sky, the Moon will only shine for you and I. In the moment before I lose my mind, these hours don't mean anything this time…”_

He can’t help but glance at the small body in his arms, _“Give me a sign, show me the light. Maybe tonight I'll tell you everything,”_ His free hand, as if having a life of its own, goes to hold the side of her head, fingers brushing through the long curtain that is her hair, bright shades of violet showing with the reflection of the fire upon them.

_“Across the world for you, my reasons have no reason to remain. I'd cross the world for you, I don't know what I'm doing wrong but I can’t stay the same,”_

Mylenne’s silence and stillness prompt him to continue, making Illidan grow a little bolder as he keeps singing, his voice feeling steadier and more confident. Her body curled up so close also does wonders on soothing the darkest of his thoughts, the familiar scent of lilies warming him from the inside out.

_“In the middle, under a clear blue sky, the sun can only burn for you and I. In the moment before I lose my mind, these hours don't mean anything this time…”_

Eventually, he starts swaying back and forth, gently and soothingly, holding her as if cradling a child. Her magic feels dormant then, just as relaxed as she is, and Illidan can’t help with resting his cheek on the top of her head, savoring and clinging to the comfort of her presence.

_“Give me a sign, show me the light. Maybe tonight I'll tell you everything.”_ He murmurs, voice low and gentle, gazing at the remains of the chimney’s fire that slowly flickers off as the minutes go by.

Casting a glance to the nearest window, Illidan notices the usual yellowish rays announcing the coming of midday—barely peeking out from behind the storm clouds, still hovering over and around the city. From below, Mylenne sighs softly, her chest going up and down in slow movements, clearly looking asleep. A quiet hum escapes him, a tender smile crossing his lips at the sight of her undisturbed features, one of her arms still clinging to his vest.

His head lolls back to the sofa, doing his best to summon the will to move, yet it comes to be a near impossible task with the lovely warmth of that woman curled up in his arms—the bright curtain of her hair, her soft breath, her endearing scent, everything coming from her eliciting him to relax. To just… take a break from the world, and _rest_.

Somehow and in between, he can’t help with being in awe, staring at the roof and contemplating the whole course and sudden shifting of events. Of all outcomes he’d been expecting that night, he’s completely sure that having Mylenne Stareye sleeping in his arms wasn’t one of them.

“I too needed this,” Illidan whispers so very low, nearly mouthing the words, his eyelids feeling heavy as he’s quickly lured onto sleep. Looking at her delicate, beautiful face one last time, another grateful smile clings up to him, fully relaxing in his spot before falling into slumber. “Thank you, Mylenne…”

* * *

… His eyes open in sudden shock, blinking repeatedly in an attempt to adjust his sights, trying to figure out something in the thick dark surrounding him. His head feels groggy, his senses going numb with the hard beating of his heart behind his ribs, and his head lolls back onto the floor when he feels his whole body aching, unable to find some strength or will to remove himself from where he lays.

Somehow he manages to crack his eyes open once more, only a small golden line which glances at the roof—a roof that he slowly starts to recognize as the one from his own house. A relieved sigh escapes his mouth. _I must have dozed off after drinking all my reserves of wine… again_ , he realizes, allowing his muscles to relax for a little bit.

Yet his head starts to throb and the floor feels hard and cold under him, provoking a pained groan out of him. His fingers twitch, scrambling for some purchase, and his vision gets more clouded once he manages to gather some strength, damp strands of hair falling on his face as he sits straight.

His breath hitches when his nose captures a strong, bitter smell that doesn’t belong to his own sweat, a shiver running down his back at the same time as a feeling of trepidation climbs onto him, tensing his muscles.

_Something is not right._

His golden eyes open wide, once again trying to figure out something in the dim light, his fireplace only providing a little illumination—and barely so, with the remaining fire quickly evening out.

White dots dance in front of his eyes as he shakes his head, yet his senses keep dulled and his gaze clouded, the room spinning wildly in front of him. But the bitter smell grows stronger around him and a cold, chill breeze runs and strokes the back of his neck, eliciting him—tempting him—to relax once more, to stop worrying so much, to just lie down again and wait for the dizziness to pass.

But he doesn’t surrender, forcing his body to respond to his demands and getting on all fours, doing his best to ignore the hard clench of his stomach and the sudden need to puke. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring with his deep breathing and sweat gathering on his thick brows with the effort of maintaining some self-control. Yet when his head lifts, he finally discovers the reason of his clouded sight.

The fire runs out, only the dim moonlight coming through a high window providing some light to the room—a room flooded with a faint sapphire mist.

The cold breeze returns from behind him, bringing a thick smoke on its way, filling the place in thick waves of azure, joining and mixing with the sapphire mist, swaying and dancing in front of his eyes.

He feels entranced with the sight, the living room devoid of all colors except the rising mist before him. The acrid taste and smell of magic fills his nose and mouth as the mist thickens and surrounds him—yet never touching his skin, only waving before him, _seducing him_ …

_Illidan…  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Taciturn, by Stone Sour (slightly modified) - https://youtu.be/e6-YTkJmz14
> 
> **A-N:** Aaaaand with this concludes what I call the "first key point" of this book – maybe a "milestone" sounds better, though. A bond has been formed and now there are three – or four, because I'm that horrible and that dense, yup! – more key points to go before the end of Starsurge and beginning of Starfall.
> 
> I want to be a little retrospective in here and admit I can't believe there were needed like +80k words to get to _this part_ – but all in all, so far so good, and it seems Illidan and Mylenne's story has so much to be told! And I absolutely can't wait to show you how everything gets unfold! :D
> 
> I also wanted to thank all those adorable readers who reached me lately and gave me such amazing support and encouragement to keep going – the mere fact that some people are actually _enjoying this_ … I don't even have words to say how much that means to me, but it really means the world. Thank you so, so, so very much for your nice words and replies! And to those lurkers and ghost readers: Don't ever hesitate to leave a review or reaching me _anywhere_ – may that be with a PM on Tumblr if you're shy, and I really mean it, wherever and whenever – I can't get tired of saying how much I adore to hear from you!
> 
> By the way, the last scene belongs to Starsurge's side story, called Dreams of Azure - [here's the complete scene](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8777506/chapters/20120794).   
> Same goes for the song, also belonging to The Thirsty Magister.


	17. Healing Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But if she’s not suitable for the Sisterhood, then when does she really _fit_? She hasn’t found the answers she had been looking for among the stars, very much less on the ways of the arcane. Will she ever find her path in life, at all? Or will she spend the rest of her life as a nameless, as a nobody? Or even worse, as a _quel_ , only required to stand beside her lifemate, spending her nights by watching her family being pushed, pulled like lifeless finger-puppets onto playing the vicious game of the Court?
> 
>  
> 
> _Am I really worthy of so… less?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW for depressive themes, mentions of blood and whoops! Fluffy fluff!** :D

** Darnassian: **

**An'da:** Father.

 **Quel / Quel’dorei:** Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.

 **Shaala’ros:** (Spell) Arcane blast.

 **Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang: **Sart(e)**.

* * *

** Stareye **

**One year later**

“ _Illidan,_

_~~Please stop~~ ~~I’d appreciate if you~~ Nothing has changed since last time we saw, so you should do well with stop worrying so much about me, I swear I’m fine! I know my last letter hasn’t been quite ~~nice~~ cheerful, but your constant worrying over me is ~~making me more nervous than~~ concerning me a little. _

_We already talked about this last month, and I still stand by my idea of keep spending the days at Vanthir’s rather than go to ~~the Manor~~ my house. And I’ll be fine as long as _ An’da _isn’t close to breathe over—“_

Rather abruptly, Mylenne smashes the parchment, throwing the draft away from her sights after she curls the paper into a ball. “Ugh, it’s no use!” She grumbles, her hands twitching with impatience, considering saving the ink for something more useful than writing a letter already half scratched and stained.

Tending to mindless and silly duties like cleaning the Sister’s spare rooms should be enough for Mylenne’s mind to stop pacing and running with so many thoughts at once. When that started, then she opts to switch and mop the upper chamber’s floors. An hour later, she finds herself rearranging the bookshelves nearly in a frantic pace, first going through alphabetical order, then by color; later ending up sorting out the new parchments from the used and rusty ones.

But nothing really helps to ease her anxiety.

“I don’t even know why I worry so much about this,” She muses to herself, already aware of being alone in the study room and with nobody to listen to her mumbling, reordering what it looks to be Sister Thania’s desk. “What would Jarod do? Or Maiev? Or Thania?”

 _They’d patiently wait for the reply letter, as any faithful devotee to Elune will surely do_ , the little voice of her conscience whispers for her, making her snort and roll her eyes absently.

The thing is, she had been waiting for two long weeks already. Two weeks in which the woman spent reconsidering every single word she wrote on the Priestess application, as well as thinking over and over why did she decided to submit to a post and job she may never grow to love—at the very least, not like her fellow Sisters seem to.

But every kaldorei with some observation skills would surely admit for Mylenne to be the last preferred choice to take up the mantle of Priestess, given her disappointing skills for healing spells, her apparent lack of fervor and dedication with spreading the word of the Goddess—all that without considering her weak connection and attunement with the Mother Moon as of late.

And yet, no kaldorei except her has to take into account Lord Stareye’s near choking pressure in applying either way.

A very tired sigh escapes her, half filled with resentment and half with a deep ache she can’t really place where does that come from, although it feels to be from somewhere close to her chest. Dragging her feet down the stairs, Mylenne forces herself to face the main chambers of the Temple once more, her main obligations for the night already finished for more than an hour ago.

Some of her fellow Sisters are still there, not a single noise daring to interrupt the quietness of their prayers except for Mylenne’s leather sandals brushing against the marble floor. Trying to be as silent as possible, she finds a spot to kneel before the bright ray of moonlight coming from the center of the ceiling; the Goddess’ light shimmering and gleaming soothingly, adorning everything it touches and bringing a sense of profound peace to the main chambers.

Lowering her head before the ray of moonlight, Mylenne joins her hands and takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart and anxious need to cling to the light’s warmth.

_Mother Moon, I beg you, allow me to hear your soothing voice… to feel your warm embrace. Why does it feel like you have left me alone in this world?_

She doesn’t want to give up on her beliefs, on her Goddess, but wondering and praying is all she can do to help with the painful clenching that tugs at her chest as she joins in with her Sisters. Have they ever felt as sorrowful and hopeless as Mylenne did—as she _does_? Is she doing something wrong?

 _I only want to be close to you. I want to believe in your guiding light… but all I see is darkness near me. Sweet Elune, I need you to hear my plea, I_ implore _you._

And yet, hours go by without any apparent change, only leaving the woman with a deep hopelessness spreading through her. It feels toxic, carrying a sensation of filling and a cold emptiness altogether, bringing tears to her eyes and a sore weariness to her body—the marbled floor feeling hard and freezing her knees. As the woman finally rises from her spot, she quietly wipes some rebel tears with her thumbs, taking a dejected glance at the ceiling, her lips trembling and a lump forming in her throat as a final conclusion comes down to her.

Perhaps… the Goddess just forgot about her. Perhaps she’s not the chosen one to walk under her light.

Because that’s what Her silence would mean, right? It can only mean she’s not fit to take the Priestess mantle; that she’s not fit to walk on that path—maybe, that she’s meant to be something else, but not a Sister of Elune.

But if she’s not suitable for the Sisterhood, then when does she really _fit_? She hasn’t found the answers she had been looking for among the stars, very much less on the ways of the arcane. Will she ever find her path in life, at all? Or will she spend the rest of her life as a nameless, as a nobody? Or even worse, as a _quel_ , only required to stand beside her lifemate, spending her nights by watching her family being pushed, pulled like lifeless finger-puppets onto playing the vicious game of the Court?

_Am I really worthy of so… less?_

As a poisoning, disgusting bile climbs up her throat, she grabs her traveling cloak and close to runs down the main stairs of the Temple, two steps at the time, looking for Rak’shareh’s whistle almost frantically. Her faithful companion shows up instantly, making her appearance from behind the woods and approaching as open and eager to escort her as she always did.

The frostsaber pushes her snout against her palm after they meet, nuzzling her hand tenderly in her way to greet the kaldorei, Mylenne’s face softening. “I guess it’s been always you and me, Rak,” She sighs, a small smile clinging to her lilac lips as she strokes her striped fur in return, “My beautiful girl… you and your sister allowed me into your lives as the closest thing you could have for a _Min’da_ ,”

A soothing purr rumbles through the beast, sending Mylenne’s heart aflutter as she kneels to get on her eye level, burying her face on the side of the saber’s neck. “I never thought I’d be so blessed of having you with me,” The woman whispers, her voice only for the beast to hear, earning a wet cheek after Shareh’s tip of her rough tongue comes in contact with it.

A girly giggle escapes the woman with the tingling sensation, a warm gratefulness spreading through her and her sour moods soothing, if only a little. With the usual admittance, Rak’shareh lowers her back and Mylenne hops onto the saddle, definitely ready to leave the Temple behind as they take the road to Suramar’s outskirts.

With the rising sun following their tracks up behind the forest trees of Val’sharah’s borders, the woman brings her violet hair down and takes mind of heading north, onto the merchant’s road. It had been close to a month since another Moon Festival went by—and so did the many barrels of Nightwine, ale, Nightpear Cider, and Moonberry wine from Vanthir’s warehouse at the Thirsty Magister, leaving the storage nearly empty after the festivities.

Sure enough, Silgryn and his crew did their fair work on emptying whatever was left, after her uncle had the idea of throwing another of his customary parties last week. After losing a bet—in which she’s completely sure Arluin cheated ruthlessly, earning a whole week of merciless teasing from Hargo regarding her awful skill at playing card games—Mylenne was left to fetch for the restocking of the warehouse.

But as she approaches the outside stalls from the not so regularly crowded merchant streets, the first she sees is the sight of a fight already ongoing—coming right from Keelay Moongrow’s fruit stand, the elf Mylenne was particularly looking for.

“Hey! Give that back, you scum!” Moongrow bellows to a male elf dressed in humble clothes, looking terribly outraged as he jumps outside his stall, coming to struggle with another two kaldorei apparently backing up the thief. “Somebody stop that thief! You haven’t paid for those Nightpears!”

They appear to be a group of five kaldorei, but Mylenne doesn’t think twice as she pushes Rak’shareh onto following the one on the loose, a sense of indignation kicking in as she gallops swiftly, using only her knees to hold onto the saddle. From her periphery, she sees Moongrow being punched and momentarily stunned before being left alone, the remaining group quick into following the one carrying the full bags of stolen merchandise.

Her frostsaber growls menacingly as they close the distance with the thief, looking ready to pounce on him if it needs to. _I should carry my bow close more often_ , Mylenne curses herself, bringing her head down to avoid being hit with some lower trees’ branches after the bandit heads to the forest. “Stop right there, thief, or I will make you!” She shouts, delving into the woods, Rak’shareh gaining more speed as they leave behind the cobblestone streets and trot onto bare grass.

Judging by more sounds of boots stomping against grass, Mylenne assumes the rest of the band is coming right behind her. However, her frostsaber doesn’t seem to be considering the other one’s approach as she flexes her paws, forcing the woman to hold onto her saddle after the beast pounces on the bandit.

Yet it’s at the very last moment when the thief cranes his head at her, dull silver eyes glowing in shades of purplish-blue and suddenly turning, lifting his free hand in her direction. “ _Shaala’ros!_ ” The man chants in a pant.

Mylenne’s eyes widen, unable to avoid the blast of magic coming from the male’s palm with their close distance, the spell not quite impressive but violent enough to send a forceful surge, striking her frostsaber and sending them flying backwards. Her back impacts against a trunk, forcing away all the air in her lungs, Rak’shareh landing heavily on the side a couple of meters behind.

_I should definitely have to carry my bow close more often._

Dizziness overtakes her as she tries to stand, feeling her back sore and her elbow injured, grunting as she blindly holds onto the trunk behind her to get some leverage. Small white dots dance before her, forcing her to blink and shake her head sharply to adjust her sights, noticing the thief on the run once more.

“Someone grab that saber!” One of the remaining men yells close to her location, the band already scrambling and taking different routes into the woods. An amused snort mixed with a grunt escapes Mylenne, forcibly pulling herself up and ignoring the pain on her left arm. _That’s so funny I should just let them try…_

“You think you can actually steal from someone else and get away with it?” She grunts, her voice hoarse as she straightens and strides to stop the band’s imminent assault on her frostsaber—although it's not like Rak would really need her to defend herself, a proud yet brief smirk making its way through her lips at the thought.

The beast is quick in returning from her stunned state, standing on all fours and paws spread, showing her mighty size along with sending a menacing growl to the remaining males. One of them—probably in his best act of desperation and hurriedness for escaping—nearly throws himself at the beast, allowing Mylenne to seize the moment and do the same from her position, hands closed into fists and ready to punch their way out if necessary.

The biggest male in the group comes first to meet her, a sneer plastered on his face after he spares a glance at her. “It always has to be a _quel_ filth,” He spits, attempting to grab her and making some time for his acquaintances to capture Rak’shareh.

A sharp elbow to his nose makes its nice work of silencing the man, sending him groaning and holding his face as Mylenne goes to struggle with another of his companions. “This is _our territory!_ What does a useless _quel_ like you have to do in our forests?” That one proclaims, opting to fight her after Rak’shareh easily paws her attacker, propelling him to the floor as if he’s made of paper.

Her new foe avoids her next fist, looking to be more skilled in battle than the rest of his band, managing to find her weak spots as he comes behind her, grabbing her injured elbow first. “You should be playing with your servants in your pompous city.” He continues, talking close to her ear and seemingly reveling in her painful yelp, taking hold of her arms.

“I wouldn't complain that much, buddy. Cute little Ladies like you always have their nice coin to spare…” His companion follows, taking a knife out of his pockets and approaching her, the cold tip of the blade dangling close to her throat. “What is a small sack of gold for a _quel_ anyway, and I bet you're full of them, aren't you?” The first man snarls, a wicked smile clinging to his bleeding face.

 _So, all they ever want is money? What a waste of time!_ Mylenne frowns, deep irritation showing on her flushed face, struggling to get loose from the other man’s grasp. “What did I ever do to the likes of you?”

Despite her efforts, his grip is too strong, the woman’s eyes watering as a sharp claw buries deeper on her injured arm, sending a hot surge of pain through her. Rak’shareh growls deeply, menacingly, but she doesn’t dare to strike as long as Mylenne’s trapped between the two males—still positioning into a battle stance, preparing to pounce on them whenever she may find an opening.

“Having born and living among us, for starters.” The man with the knife says as if it’s obvious, dodging a knee to his stomach and pinning the struggling woman in place, the blade then pressing the angry throbbing vein on her throat, “Don't waste your breath, little _quel_ , this is quite easy. You just handle your coins to the free folk and we may spare— _ungh!_ ”

A flash of magic resonates like a whip from behind the man, haloing his dark head in shades of purple for a mere moment before stunning him, the blade on Mylenne’s throat loosening drastically. “Moon Guard… _arane_ , I knew it!” Rak’shareh’s attacker gasps, panic narrowing his face as he scrambles to get up and sprint away.

Mylenne hesitates to move as another whip echoes sharply through the woods, her breath hitching and eyes open wide as bright arcane magic shows, made in a vague form of tendrils, spreading out and away in the mere course of a second to grasp the attackers, one by one. A faint purplish fog takes a more solid state as it reaches the male before her, enclosing on his limbs and throat like roots. The man grabbing her arms is forced to let her go as well, grunting in pain and losing his grip on her, bringing the woman to fall on her knees.

Her frostsaber comes to assist her in an instant, but Mylenne doesn’t acknowledge her beast just yet, blinking forcefully and panting as the face of Illidan comes into view some meters ahead.

Her heart starts racing, for she has never seen him so… _enraged_.

His magical aura flares furiously as he stares at the men he captured, gaze glowing so bright that nearly blinds her. “You may believe yourselves free of will, but you are blind for wealth,” Illidan snarls through clenched teeth and jaw, his baritone voice booming with many dark promises, sending a shiver down the woman’s spine. “And you _dare_ assault a Lady… perhaps all you are looking for is to die.”

A blazing wave of arcane flashes through Illidan, his grip on the males tightening mercilessly, their feet no longer touching the floor as he sends them floating, “Agh—no, no, wait, _wait!_ ” One of the males croaks and whines as he lifts in the air, his face darkening as a purplish sort of vine constricts his throat.

Looking more incensed than ever before, Illidan twists his wrist sharply, a glimpse of satisfaction flashing on his glowing eyes after one of the bandits in his clutch groans in return. “Say the word, Mylenne, and I'll snap their necks in half like the scum they are,” He prompts, sharp canines showing behind his dark lips.

A part of her wants to scramble and run away, her heart trying to hammer its way out of her ribs at the sight of such fearsome display, her skin covering with goosebumps in no time. Yet it’s another part—one that feels like her voice of reason—can’t help but agree with her friend.

 _They deserve to be punished_ , that small voice whispers to her, _they don’t have an excuse for their crimes. They punched and beat Moongrow, left his stall like a total mess, and for what? Only for some Nightpears? Goddess, you don’t even use Nightpears for eating!_

And still, Illidan neither deserves to bear the weight of their deaths on his shoulders. He’s so much better than that, and she definitely can’t bring herself to demand such a thing from a man she considers a friend.

So, Mylenne sighs heavily, attempting to regain some control of her racing heart. “... Let them go, Illidan. They’re not worthy of a merciful death.” She declares in her most composed of tones.

A long moment goes by, Illidan’s magic still flaring with deep fury, nose scrunched and looking torn between letting them go or giving the bandits the pain he _palpably_ believes they deserve. Ultimately, he lets go of some breath he’d apparently been holding and—if with reluctance—acquiesces, dropping the males onto the grass with a heavy thump. He sneers sharply, snaring their wrists and ankles with magic chains, looking somehow pleased of seeing them panting and groaning.

“It appears to be your lucky night… but you are still meeting the dungeons,” Illidan affirms, pinning the closest bandit with his furious glare only before helping her to stand. As he outstretches a hand to Mylenne, his face transforms drastically after acknowledging her state. “You’re hurt,” He half gasps.

Mylenne rolls her eyes and shrugs, “I _may_ have collided with a tree,” She attempts for a joke to lighten the mood, still ignoring the throbbing pain in her elbow and lower back. When the only reply she gets is a deeper frown of his cobalt brows, she huffs heavily, “I'm fine, Lid, it's just a wound, alright? Better let me fetch someone to take these thugs,”

Accepting his offering hand, the woman ensues to make her best attempt of definitely not _limping_ back to the merchant streets, straightening as best as she can. She realizes how probably awful her state must be after noticing Illidan’s concerned gaze on her back, although she opts to leave that future conversation for a better time, signaling her frostsaber to keep watch on the bandits as she returns to Moongrow’s booth.

To her surprise, she finds one of her uncle’s friends, Oculeth, already helping the merchant to rearrange his mess of a stall. “Hey, kiddo! There you are!” The bald man greets her with a relieved smile, disappearing completely after sparing a better glance at her. “It appeared to be fortunate to also bring your sorcerer friend with me… or so it seems. What in Elune’s name happened back there!?”

As her adrenaline starts wearing down, Mylenne decides to give Oculeth and Moongrow the quick story, procuring to help them in settling the fruits on their baskets in the process. However, the merchant quickly refuses any further help from her part, insisting just as much as Silgryn’s friend to get her injuries taken care of.

Illidan shows up and joins them some minutes later, Rak’shareh right behind his steps, both looking much more at ease than when Mylenne left them. “The Rooksguard came over to take the bandits. One of them claimed something about these people being in their borders, so…” Given his seemingly offended snort and the shrug of his shoulders, Illidan doesn’t appear to look quite pleased with the outcome, although it’s not like he can do anything against that.

Oculeth is the one to take in the situation, nodding at them and bringing a couple of Nightpears to their proper baskets, the fruits looking to be comically bigger than his head. “Good, good, then off you go! I’ll take care of this from here, kiddo,” He prompts them away with a tilt of his bald head, coming to startle when Moongrow suddenly jumps out and forward from the stall.

“Ha! Not so bold now, aren’t you?” All the attention is brought to the merchant as he strides to a chained man, escorted by two masked Black Rook guards, looking much engrossed on their futile attempt to unbind the thief’s magic cuffs on his wrists. Moongrow doesn’t seem to think twice as he lands a fist to the bandit’s cheek, “That’s for nearly ruining a season of business, you scum!”

 _Is that the first thief? I thought he had escaped by now_ , Mylenne ponders to herself, arching a suspicious violet eyebrow in Illidan’s general direction. He only shrugs nonchalantly beside her, appearing to look uninterested in giving it much importance. However, a little smirk clinging to his lips appears to betray him, showing right after Mylenne can’t help but smile proudly—Oculeth also stopping to seemingly admire Illidan’s handiwork, “Would you take a look at that! Ha! Bless you, lad!” He smiles, a bark of laughter following.

For a while, the three of them look content with just watching the show, some merchants even cheering Moongrow as he struggles with the Black Rook guards in their useless attempt to bring him away from the criminal. “And that one’s for the kiddo, you fucking _sart!_ ”

* * *

Back on the road once more, Mylenne is forced to indulge to Illidan’s nearly annoying insistence of treating her wounds, her patience wearing off rather quickly next to her adrenaline, both appearing to be left behind after the late event at the merchant streets. Even Rak’shareh looks inclined to agree with the man, if Mylenne could judge by her concerned cries and offended sniffs she gives to her bleeding elbow.

“The Temple’s midway from here, your saber can take you there while I catch up with you,” He stabs a thumb behind his shoulder, looking determined as ever and blatantly ignoring Mylenne’s growing irritation with the subject.

“Goddess, _no,_ I’m not going to the Temple again… and you’re not dragging me there!” She glares at him after he appears to be considering the idea, fuming after he crosses his arms and holds her stare in a challenging manner. “Despite the appearances, this… _worthless quel_ is not made of glass,” She waves her good arm at herself as if to make her point, “Vanthir can take care of this as nicely as any Sister,”

Illidan’s dark forehead creases deeper after her comment, a flash of realization running on his golden gaze, disappearing after the next blink. That time is Mylenne who decides to ignore him, turning around and encouraging her frostsaber to follow, striding to the road leading to Suramar’s outskirts.

However, he doesn’t appear to be having any of her brushoffs, landing a hand on her good shoulder. “Hey… that’s not—they’re _wrong_ ,” Illidan says softly, searching for her face as he prompts her to a stop. “Mylie, hey, look at me. You’re not a worthless _quel_ ; you _never_ were and _ever_ will be one, you hear me?” His eyes are still hard as they lock on hers, yet his voice isn’t up to take a negative.

A heavy sigh escapes her, feeling too tired to hold his usually intense gaze, although trying very hard to believe his words. “Life appears to think otherwise, but thanks for the reminder,” Mylenne sends a half forced smile to him as she pats Rak’shareh’s side, gently signaling the beast to lean down to mount her. “I could’ve handled them on my own, though. I'm not a damsel in distress,”

Illidan stares at her as if he’d just been slapped, confusion narrowing his handsome features. “I never thought you were, I… I just reacted,” He tries to explain, yet not even he looks convinced with his choice of words. His concerned frown returns with full force after he courteously helps Mylenne to settle on her beast’s saddle, “That wound looks bad, you may need to get that stitched if you keep it in the open like that…”

“Oh, for Elune’s sake, Illidan, I already told you I’m—“ She complains again, feeling completely drained of her tolerance level for a week at most.

But he cuts down her protests after handling her one of his metallic bracers, “Hold this, I have an idea,” Illidan then proceeds to unwrap some long and dark leather straps bound around his wrist, tsking when the woman tries to speak again. As gently as he can, he gets on wrapping the fabric along her injured limb, “Just indulge in my need to be useful, at least _this once_ …” He grumbles, sounding more like talking to himself than to her.

“What— _ugh_ ,” A painful grunt escapes Mylenne’s lips after he presses the wound close, both of them grimacing briefly, her silver eyes watering with the throbbing sensation. Forcibly blinking back the tears that threaten to come out, she rubs her face sharply for good measure, a controlled breath following to ease the feeling. “Don’t think I haven’t heard that, and even _you_ know that’s not true, Lid. What’s on your mind?”

He steps away to seemingly admire his handiwork, allowing Rak’shareh to get on the move, but Mylenne comes aware of something truly troubling her friend—judging by the way his lips purse and how he avoids her gaze in an obvious manner.

However, as they all get on the move, he finally gets on spilling it out. “Today it turns to be twenty-five years since I started my training at the Moon Guard... and I'm still an initiate. I haven’t seen myself still training at this point, you know?” He runs a hand through his cobalt mane, gaze dropping to the floor as if in thought, “It's just—ugh, I'm probably being silly, don't mind me…”

“You're feeling your efforts are taking you nowhere. Maybe, that you’ll be stuck as an initiate for another twenty-five years,” The words escape Mylenne’s mouth without being able to take it back, but she actually knows how her friend must be feeling—she can relate to him in so many ways.

Illidan doesn’t really look as if he wants to talk about it, sighing heavily and indulging a moment of silence. “I… I always believed in having to sweat and bleed to really meet success. That, the only reason for someone not reaching their goals is because they haven’t tried harder. But right now? I don’t really know what to believe,” His gaze fixes on some point around her saddle and her knee, face scrunching as if forcing himself to keep talking. “Perhaps I've been thinking about this all wrong… I don't even know if I believe in myself as of now,”

Mylenne’s heart clenches painfully with his words, a surge of empathy mixed with some sense of sadness coursing through her. That lack of confidence, that insecurity and self-doubt could never apply to the man she knows—and it’s nothing but hurtful to even hear those thoughts coming from such a strong, assured man as Illidan Stormrage.

“You want to know what I think?” She says softly, prompting her frostsaber to slow her pace and keep up with him, leaning down to brush some rebel strands of his hair away from his shoulder. “In all honesty, I think there's no one more worthy of reaching their goals than you.”

The man spares a doubtful glance at her, lips pursed as if not finding the will to speak further. So, she does, “You're incredibly talented, Illidan, and I'm daring to say just as much as my mother,” Mylenne assures him, looking straight to his golden eyes to show him how serious she is, “Anyone can see that from miles away; it's so blatantly obvious you were born and meant for greatness that's even _shocking_ to see that, sometimes…”

Her mention of the late Conjurer seems to get onto him, for then he comes to a stop all in a sudden, her frostsaber—unexpectedly—doing the same and coming to stand beside him. “I…” Illidan bites his lower lip briefly, appearing to be struggling with himself, looking conflicted, surprised and confused altogether. “I sense a but in there,” He finally opts to say, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

Mylenne leans as closer to him as her mount can allow, “What you did back there, I’m quite sure that’s not who you are or who you want to be. And while I'm not complaining about that… _display_ , that also has shown me how great you could be if you weren't controlled by your feelings,” She shrugs slightly in an attempt to not give that much importance than necessary, a genuine smile clinging to her lips when Illidan finally looks at her. “What I really think? I think your temper is getting the best of you, and that's your only mistake.”

“That's… A lot of beliefs for someone who's losing their faith,” He points out what had been the main topic of their last conversation, one that had close to a month ago—and yet, despite his subtle attempt to focus their talk on her once more, Mylenne doesn’t miss the very tiny glimpse of hopefulness flashing on his golden gaze.

Her smile widens, the throbbing pain coming from her elbow long forgotten as she reaches to him half unconsciously, wanting to give him the comforting words he looks to be craving for. “I may be, yeah, you’re right. But, if anything, I have faith in _you_.”

As if having a life of its own, her lavender hand goes to cup his cheek, stroking it tenderly—her heart suddenly missing a beat with the way his whole face relaxes and softens with her touch, his eyes fluttering close for a moment. “It's all around you, Lid: You _will_ do great things. You _will_ reach your goals, sooner rather than later, I just know it.”

Mylenne allows the silence that washes over them, her words appearing to be sinking in as a grateful smile clings to Illidan’s lips; leaning into her touch, a dark hand covering her small one in a seeming attempt to keep it there. When his eyes open and lock on hers, they look brighter as ever, leaving her only to stare in awe at the breathtaking beauty of his eyes—delicate shades of amber and yellow gleaming with the rays coming from the morning sunlight; the utmost perfect painting she has ever seen.

Her ears twitch ever so slightly with the sound of his deep voice, but whatever he says—something close to _thank you,_ and _beautiful,_ and _Goddess,_ and _precious_ , only judging by the vague movement of his lips—is muffled with her rapid heartbeat; first fluttering, then attempting to hammer its way out of her chest. All is forgotten as Mylenne can’t do anything else but look at Illidan’s stunning face, her own cheeks starting to hurt with the beaming smile she sends him.

How is he capable of doing it, the very fabric of time stopping; winds, heartbeats and breathing all but freezing every time they stare at each other, Mylenne doesn’t want to know by then. She doesn’t want to even _think_ about it, for the only thought and craving need in her mind is to close the mere inches keeping them apart and finally claim those hard—yet also soft—dark, waiting lips of his; the very same ones she wouldn’t admit to anybody, but had been dreaming of kissing since they first laid eyes upon each other.

And how can she refuse or deny her deep wishes when the Moon, the sun, the forest, the very electric air around them all but seem to _push her_ to Illidan’s arms?

“Mylie, I…” Illidan whispers, his breath fanning over her mouth and making her heart melt; as if it hadn’t done that before. She’s about to shut him off for good measure, but then, “— _Whoa!_ ”

All in a sudden, Mylenne is left yelping ridiculously, nearly tripping over him as Rak’shareh unexpectedly decides to drop over the bare grass, making her lose her balance on the saddle. Somehow, Illidan manages to get a hold on her, keeping her from meeting the floor, both snapping away from their reverie to glance at the beast under the woman.

He’s the one to clear his throat first, quickly recovering his composure, “What’s got onto her?” He wonders genuinely. Mylenne can’t help but lean closer to him, attempting to take a better look at Shareh’s face—but her beast only appears to have eyes for Illidan, her yellow gaze soft on him, tilting her striped head down in… _submission?_

Mylenne’s jaw nearly drops onto the floor, gaping at the sight rather comically, abruptly snapping out after Illidan softly elbows her on the side, searching her face for an explanation. “She has ever done that with anyone before, except me,” The woman tries to explain, switching Shareh’s yellowish eyes for Illidan’s golden ones. “She’s… she’s allowing you to _mount her,_ ”

And then, it’s Illidan’s time to gape at his two companions, looking between the two females as if he had just get the most shocking revelation of his life—his face contorting comically with too many reactions at once. The woman tries to control the burst of giggles threatening to rise from the bottom of her throat, ultimately not succeeding as she nearly explodes in a fit of laughter.

That heart-stopping—or rather time-stopping—moment may have been ruined by her frostsaber, but as Illidan keeps staring at them in seeming awe, Mylenne comes with the realization that _every_ moment spent with him is just… priceless.

_Beautiful… Goddess… precious. Thank you…_

“So? What are you waiting for?” Not really helping it, she places a clumsy kiss on his cheek before readjusting herself on the saddle, making some space for him to get behind. “Hop in before she comes to regret it!”

Illidan half snorts, half chuckles, his previous sour mood appearing to be long forgotten. “You don’t need to tell me twice,” He replies, his grateful smile never fading as he climbs behind her with ease, always true to his courteous nature as he takes precious care of not pressing her injured back. “Dear Goddess, are you ever going to cease to amaze me?”

* * *

With the sun shining brightly above them and announcing the coming of midday, Mylenne can’t help with leaning her weight against Illidan’s chest, deep tiredness and fatigue starting to get a toll on her as they gallop to the Thirsty Magister. Wincing slightly here and there—mostly with Shareh’s eager trot and some sudden jumps—her way back to the bar comes to be a peaceful one, both kaldorei chatting about everything and nothing at all.

Luckily, Illidan is quick in adjusting to her frostsaber’s uncommon pacing, not once making a single complaint or snarky comment about her speed or already known wild nature, looking nearly amazed with earning the saber’s trust rather than anything else—something the woman comes to appreciate deeply and wholeheartedly.

After all, it’s not like Mylenne can forget about Illidan being the second elf in the world coming to form a bond with an untamed beast such as Rak’shareh, not even Silgryn gaining the saber’s approval to mount her. That’s without considering her centuries of studies in local fauna, bringing the sudden event to become a quite remarkable one.

What did Illidan say about her ever going to cease to amaze him? And when is he going to do the same with her?

_Isn’t he one of a kind already?_

It’s not long when they come to a stop before the bar’s doors, Illidan hopping down the mere second they get there, looking eager to be of assistance as he outstretches both hands to her, helping Mylenne to mount off with some help from her saber as well. After propelling her on her feet, he then makes a little show of bowing elegantly before the beast, offering the back of his hand for her to smell—the whole act looking funny to Mylenne only, Rak’shareh only huffing and dismissing him, looking seemingly unimpressed.

“You better don’t do that to her,” Mylenne idly bats his hand away from the beast, chuckling low as she holds to Illidan’s arm, propelling him to follow her. “I’m afraid you’ll probably lose some fingers in the process,”

“Aaw, that’s a shame,” Illidan fakes a pout as he takes his arm back, preferring to encircle her shoulders instead. “Right when I was deciding to courtship her. I think if you hear carefully, you can listen to my heart breaking right now,”

A contagious laughter escapes her as they get inside Vanthir’s place, her eyes watering, using her good hand to rub her face and allowing Illidan to lead the way to her acquaintances’ customary table, the bar nearly empty at that late time of day.

Only to their merry fit to wear off near instantly, after meeting Vanthir’s worried glance and Silgryn’s utterly _incensed_ face—one that could challenge Illidan quite easily. Hargo also makes his appearance, coming down the stairs, wearing the same cast down state as everyone in the bar.

It doesn’t come to be helpful when everyone appears to acknowledge her injuries at the same time. “Elune’s glowing tits, what happened to you!?” Silgryn gasps, silver eyes blowing wide, “I only told you to look for her, lad, not to bring her to a fight! And where’s Oculeth?”

Mylenne only sighs heavily and rolls her eyes, growing utterly tired with the same questioning—yet also noticing the way Illidan tenses beside her, ever so subtly. “Ugh, it’s a long story. You go first,” She decides, waving a hand to her uncle as to prompt him to be quick about it.

Silgryn grumbles something under his breath and starts pacing frantically, running a hand through his violet mane, “Arluin’s missing, disappeared from thin air,” He explains, nearly throwing a piece of parchment at Mylenne’s feet, giving her one of his most serious stares. “And I believe _your loving father_ is behind this…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter comes a new part of this book! As always, _thank you so so so much_ for your excitement, your encouragement and for keep rooting on Mylie and Lid. Their adventures - and endless dances, lol! - are very far from over :D 
> 
> Feel free to follow me on [Tumblr](http://hoxadrine.tumblr.com) for some early fanart and snippets!  
> And don't ever hesitate to reach me - however, whenever and wherever you feel like it - as some of you had been doing. It's always a BLESSING to hear from you... and I can't help but still be amazed at how many of you seem to like this pairing. I'm flattered and humbled beyond words <3


	18. Call of the Huntress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let’s just say I decided to track down this self-proclaimed patriarch of our household, and I’ve recently found some… _things_ that need to be taken care of as soon as possible,” Illidan doesn’t miss the warning glance he throws to his niece, only lasting for a mere moment before tucking a rebel strand of dark violet hair away from his face.
> 
> He’s tempted to demand them to stop with all the secrecy and start speaking more clearly, yet when Mylenne gasps softly beside him, shockingly staring back at her uncle, Illidan feels forced to bite his tongue. Still, his curiosity grows alongside with some sense of uneasiness, subtly leaning closer to the table and to her, a new pondering assaulting his mind.
> 
> He’s not up to judge if she’d been hiding things from him—after all, both are just recently developing some trust in each other, and he can understand Mylenne’s reluctance regarding some delicate subjects—but from her uncle? Had she been hiding something from Silgryn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for incredibly and inexcusably **long** chapter (?). TW for swearing, slight depressive themes, violence and blood.  
>  Oh, and thick plot.

** Darnassian: **

**Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang: **Sart(e)**.

**Quel / Quel’dorei:** Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

**Ana’duna thor:** May translate to “Fight/trouble is upon us”. Not to be confused with “Bandu Thoribas”, said as a taunt or a war cry.

**Pare’tharas […] amurabar:** (Arcane spell) Teleport (incomplete).

* * *

** Stormrage **

“Arluin’s missing, disappeared from thin air,” Silgryn snarls, throwing what looks like a crumpled letter at the feet of his niece along with a hard glare, his usual merry mood nowhere to be seen, “And I believe  _your loving father_  is behind this…” He then deadpans as he faces them properly, lips contorted into a disgusted sneer.

Illidan lets Mylenne go with some reluctance, grabbing the piece of parchment from the floor and bringing it into the woman’s waiting hands, his mind still trying to process the information. As much as he’s not really accustomed to being that weary—not even at midday—he’d be lying if his working hours and the sudden events that came that morning with Mylenne hadn’t already taken a toll on him.

At least it’s not like he has to still pretend he’s fine, for Mylenne’s tired look in her face speaks louder than his own—despite hers being for entirely different reasons.

_This isn’t the time for that, Stormrage. Your sleeping issues can wait some more…_

He’s inclined to agree with his distant voice of reason, the subject dropped away from his mind when Hargo steps forward and to the group, a concerned frown narrowing his face. “What could possibly be so wrong for you to throw an accusation just like that, Silgryn?” He seemingly does his best to keep his voice neutral, approaching to Mylenne to surely assist her in some way, yet keeping his eyes on Silgryn, “Do you really suspect of your brother-in-law, of all people?”

Illidan can’t be sure if his sudden annoyance is caused by the naivety in Hargo’s voice or it’s just his presence alone that does it just as easily—although it’s easy to reach the conclusion of everything that regards his Moon Guard officer inevitably coming to be… insufferable. So when the man offers a helping hand to Mylenne, a heated glare is all Illidan sends back before bringing her to the nearest couch.

Mylenne doesn’t complain, though, looking too engrossed with the parchment in her hands to even acknowledge Hargo’s insistence. As Vanthir silently comes to her booth, Illidan takes a seat beside her, some part in an attempt of placing himself between the woman and Hargo and some other so to take a peek at her reading.

“Why, yes! ‘Of all people’, that piece of shit is the very first one that comes to my mind,” Silgryn barks back, mockingly quoting Hargo’s words and looking very worked up in a way Illidan hasn’t ever seen in him, a sense of worry growing along. “Really, when did you decide to _question me_ , pretty boy? At this point, I’d have thought you knew how that guy really is…”

“Stop it, you two,” Mylenne retorts, slamming a fist on the table and startling the entire group except for Illidan, recalling everyone’s attention. “I can’t explain how tired I am. My arm hurts, my back hurts… ugh, honestly, _everything_ hurts right now.” Her eye twitches, trying to swallow a hiss as Vanthir exposes her wounded elbow to the crowd, his leather straps dropped onto the table. “And you _seriously_ don’t want me also having a headache, so I’d really appreciate if we go with one problem at the time, can we?”

As Hargo glances back at the woman, looking terribly apologetic for upsetting her, Illidan can’t keep the annoyed snort that escapes his mouth. How did Mylenne ever decide to choose such an _empty-headed sart_ as a lover and potential mate? _That_ is probably a better question to consider. Sure enough, he doesn’t know much about Hargo to figure that out, and most of the people’s praises are directed to his—supposed—unwavering kindness and compassion.

However, that alone is not supposed to make him appealing or attractive, very much less more suitable to be picked above others as a mate.

By Elune, and if that behavior were all one needed to be looked by a female as a potential mate, Illidan is absolutely sure he’d be bonded by then. He’d passed the coming of age to marry by four centuries already, and while he ever got such proposals from the many women he’d courted over the past years, he hadn’t really been disappointed with the outcomes.

_Pfft, why are you even thinking about such things? Are you seriously considering the possible benefits of marriage?_ The dark voice of his conscience scolds him, sounding surprised and disgusted altogether. _Of_ you _, spending the rest of your nights with only_ one woman _? Dear Goddess, that ride must have messed up with your brain…_

Illidan shakes his head in a silly attempt to brush that voice away from his mind, in part feeling inclined to agree, yet not having the strength to keep on that line of thought for the moment. No matter how many excuses he may have, he’s quite aware that a great part of his… displeasure of Hargo is just his jealousy showing.

It’s not like he can help it, though. Honestly, what does that man have that _he_ doesn’t?

With Silgryn’s quite unstable state of mind, it’s Vanthir who decides to give him and Mylenne the quick summary. “Sil and Luin had been working around some… delicate matters for the past years, most of them regarding the future of House Stareye,” He begins, pausing in his task of wrapping some clean linen bandages around the woman’s arm for a moment, “I believe you’re quite aware so far with Silgryn being the rightful heir to your mother’s fortune and legacy, am I right?”

Vanthir speaks with evident carefulness, some more meanings hidden behind his words, making one of Illidan’s brows quirk up in sheer curiosity. Mylenne sighs tiredly beside him, shoulders slumping down and dropping the letter next to the other parchments on the table, looking as if she’d heard that many times before. “Yeah, I know. Surprisingly, it was Lady Ailen Astravar who last reminded me of that…” She admits, craning her neck to look at her uncle. “What this has to do with Arluin?”

Silgryn then returns to the table, carrying some mugs of ale and more parchments to add to the pile on the table. “Let’s just say I decided to track down this self-proclaimed patriarch of our household, and I’ve recently found some… _things_ that need to be taken care of as soon as possible,” Illidan doesn’t miss the warning glance he throws to his niece, only lasting for a mere moment before tucking a rebel strand of dark violet hair away from his face.

He’s tempted to demand them to stop with all the secrecy and start speaking more clearly, yet when Mylenne gasps softly beside him, shockingly staring back at her uncle, Illidan feels forced to bite his tongue. Still, his curiosity grows alongside with some sense of uneasiness, subtly leaning closer to the table and to her, a new pondering assaulting his mind.

He’s not up to judge if she’d been hiding things from him—after all, both are just recently developing some trust in each other, and he can understand Mylenne’s reluctance regarding some delicate subjects—but from her uncle? Had she been hiding something from Silgryn?

“Sil, I’m sorry, I—” She begins, worryingly biting her lower lip, but the elder Stareye cuts her off with a wave of his hand, dismissing her instantly.

“Doesn’t matter now and… I understand, alright? It’s fine, I get it,” Silgryn scoffs softly as he takes a seat in front of them, idly sorting some letters and crumpled parchments, looking apparently decided to not unleash his irritation upon his niece. “Anyways, Arluin offered to take matters by himself, given the delicate information, but neither he nor his ‘little birds’ had reported since last dawn. He just doesn’t do that.”

Surprisingly, of all people, Hargo is the one who doesn’t look convinced with the very few that Silgryn lets them know—hands clenched into fists, twitching and very faintly pulsing with magic as he crosses his arms over his chest, looking like attempting to keep his thoughts to himself. Mylenne seems to notice it as much, frowning deeply before stretching to grab one of the mugs, Illidan fetching one for her in an act of reflex.

“Gotcha! Here it is,” The elder Stareye then hands his niece one of the letters for her to take a look, “This is from Verene, a friend of mine and one of Matron Scarleth’s girls. Luin had been around her place lately, only told me something about one of his birds having a hard time with a client.” While Mylenne quickly scans the letter, he taps his temple with two fingers as if trying to remember something, “Oh, yeah, Jynn, if I recall it right.”

The mention of that name prompts the woman to meet her uncle’s face, a soft gasp escaping her. “What? _Jynn?_ Oh Goddess, is she alright?” Mylenne nearly drops the mug in her hand, the sudden panic in her voice making Vanthir startle next to her. “What happened to her? Oh, please tell me she’s alright, uncle…”

“Huh?” Illidan blinks thrice, cobalt eyebrows quirking up when he recalls the woman they’re talking about. “I didn’t know you were a friend of Jynn. How did you meet her?” He can’t help but ask, growing too curious to keep himself from voicing his thoughts.

Silgryn throws him a knowing look, “Really, lad? How does someone ever meet a _courtesan_?” He says sarcastically, in part annoyed yet also appearing half-amused—if he could judge by the slight smirk showing in his face.

“Well, knowing Jynn a little, if you ever, uhm, requested her—“ But when he notices a sudden blush growing in Mylenne’s cheeks, his jaw nearly falls down. “Oh? _Ooh_ …” He looks away in an instant, clearing his throat in an attempt to keep an embarrassing chuckle from escaping him, the woman elbowing him lightly with her uninjured arm for good measure.

_So, Mylie and Jynn…? Well, that’s new._

Despite knowing he shouldn’t be surprised so far, Illidan can’t help but wonder if she’s ever going to stop from doing so. And when—rather inevitably—he has a mental picture of the two women, there’s not much he can do but gulp half of his ale, doing his best attempt to keep his face straight.

Hargo snorts and Silgryn only rolls his eyes—evidently noticing his small struggle—yet fortunately doesn’t get on teasing him for it. “Jynn’s fine, though, it’s nothing she can’t handle,” He continues, waving a hand, “Verene only said she’d been requested by one of the Rooksguard this week, more specifically, one of Desdel’s closest Lieutenants. No idea who, but judging by what the girls mentioned, probably that _sart_ of Piet…”

Mylenne sighs deeply in relief before returning her full attention to her uncle, brows furrowed. “I don’t understand. Why you bring this and what does that Lieutenant have to do with Arluin?”

“Better go to the end of the letter,” He prompts her with a tilt of his head, some dark violet strands going loose from its bun.

From his position, Illidan is only able to read some bits of the letter, a rushed calligraphy showing in the parchment. “ _Sil, I have a feeling that the guard_ knew _Arluin was listening...”_ It reads, a sense of unease settling in his gut, lips pursing as he does his best to get a better view and don’t look like he’s prying too much. _“He wouldn’t mention her and her friend’s name so openly otherwise, I think—”_ Mylenne’s thumb covers the rest of the line, her jaw visibly clenching, her lips pressed together as if holding her breath. _“… Please, my friend, I beg you to be careful! Call it a sixth sense but this looks like a trap to me…”_

A gloved hand settles over his shoulder, pushing him away from the woman, forcing him to straighten in his seat. His golden eyes meet Silgryn’s silver ones, a warning flashing in his dull gaze—Illidan’s nostrils flaring, becoming torn between apologizing as well as wanting to smack his hand away. While he’s pretty much aware he shouldn’t be prying in matters he wasn’t called for, a huge part of him also believes he already earned some knowledge of Mylenne’s life so far.

It’s been two years since they first met and she already considers him a friend. It’s only fair to believe himself somewhat deserving to know what’s really going on, right?

But then Illidan nearly startles for the first time in the day, when Mylenne’s hand unconsciously snatches his arm, her eyes blowing wide as she looks at nowhere in particular. “ _Jarod…_ ” She breathes, nails digging into his muscle, gripping harder as her face contorts into sheer panic. “Oh, no. Oh, Goddess, _no…_ ”

Abruptly, Silgryn rises from his seat, slamming both palms on the table before them, making everyone flinch and jump away except Mylenne, looking too shocked to react. “What!? You just said _Jarod_?” He bellows, almost slack-mouthed, staring at his niece as if he’d just heard the most offensive curse in the world falling from her lips. “I can’t fucking believe it, I… _arane!_ That piece of shit went too far this time! I… I can’t even—Jarod _arane_ Shadowsong!?”

Looking just as lost as Hargo, there’s not as much Illidan can do except for taking Mylenne’s hand in his, prompting her attention to him. “Could you just stop for a moment and tell us what’s going on?” He nearly demands, becoming more alarmed and worried than just curious, leaning further to meet the woman’s eyes.

Her bright silver eyes meet his, unblinking. “Look, Lid, I can’t—“ With sheer regret plastered on her face, she takes her hand back before also rising from her seat, going to walk around the table at a frantic pace, unconsciously seeming to join her relative’s near hysterical state. It’s when Hargo intends to stop her when she suddenly comes back to where Illidan is seated, evidently unaware of her rudeness, “Listen, I’m sorry for all this mystery, I really am. This is still too complicated for me to talk about it, and I…”

“And we have more urgent matters to be worried right about now,” Silgryn presses on, looking half-oblivious and half-uninterested to hear Mylenne’s excuses, somehow also keeping Illidan from getting genuinely offended. “For starters, the matter of where _the fuck_ Luin is, don’t you think?”

Vanthir jumps in as the ever voice of reason. “From what all of you have already said, everything leads for him to be in the Black Rook Hold,” Mylenne nods in agreement, yet with tiredness, some weariness starting to show in her face and body.

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to dare meeting Illidan’s gaze again, his lips pursing tightly as he does his best with keeping his growing sense of hurt to himself. While a big part of him deeply demands to snap and scold Mylenne for all her secrecy and apparent lack of trust in him, there’s also this voice of cold reasoning who insists against it—agreeing, if reluctantly, with Silgryn’s opinions and current priorities.

“And surely in danger, knowing him…” Silgryn sighs heavily, staring at the parchments on the table as if contemplating their options. “That’s it! I’m going there and face that _sart_ once and for all,” He declares a moment later, his resolve set as he drinks what remains of his ale in one long gulp. “I think _my fist_ needs to get reacquainted with him,”

A grimace sets on Mylenne’s face, glancing at her uncle with furrowed violet eyebrows, “You’re seriously thinking you’re going to the Hold all by yourself?” She says, her words coming out in a near growl, “No, I’m coming with you, and don’t look at me like that,” The woman faces him defiantly, managing to look bold and menacing even with her short height, pointing out an accusing finger at Silgryn’s chest. “This concerns _me_ even more than you, Sil, so there’s no way you’re keeping me in here.”

Hargo is the first one daring to approach to the incensed relatives, placing a soothing hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Then count on me as well. My saber could be of use, and you might need it to bring Arluin back,” He offers solemnly, lightly squeezing Mylenne in a way to reassure her.

From his seat, Illidan just snorts at the scene, holding the bridge of his nose with two fingers so to keep the rest from noticing his growing exasperation. “You can’t possibly be thinking about entering Black Rook by the front gates and politely ask the guards to hand Arluin over, are you?” He scoffs, sarcasm tinting his deep voice, “What you need is blending in, and half of Suramar knows your face, Hargo,” Waving a hand at the man in dismissal, he then faces the group properly. “But I can join you instead; my skills would be of _better_ use,”

Mylenne glances at Illidan from behind her shoulder, slightly gaping and looking lost for words, if for a moment. Right when she’s about to protest—judging by the concerned frown plastered on her face—Silgryn claps his hands, startling her. “A fair point, lad. It’s decided, then!” Without hesitation, he signals his niece to get on the move straight away, tidying his dark violet mane hastily. “Vanthir, grab the bows, we’re going—“

“— _anywhere_ , that’s what.” Vanthir deadpans, placing himself in the middle of the way, fisted hands on his hips and a stern look on his face. “You can’t just run there in the middle of the day, you jerks! Besides, Mylie here needs to rest and heal properly.” He waves a hand in Mylenne’s general direction, prompting the relatives to stare back in a seeming shocked manner, blinking repeatedly as if not believing the bartender’s determination. “The Rooksguard’s shifts are at moonrise, you’ll do better by waiting until then, anyways…”

Silgryn’s whole face scrunches, dull silver eyes set into crinkled slits, narrowing at his friend with gritted teeth, showing his evident disapproval. The only woman in the bar doesn’t complain, however, only a heavy sigh escaping her lips as she strides to drop herself on the nearest booth, looking completely tired. Hargo and the bartender make a fair job of quickly bringing more ale to the occupied table—probably looking forward to placating everyone’s sour moods somehow—sorting and removing some parchments so to make some space.

In the meantime and as the group gets on idly discussing the best possible course of action, Illidan allows himself a moment with leaning further in his seat, the late hour of the day as much as the ale starting to take a toll on him. His mind drifts away from the group momentarily, eyelids growing heavy, not finding the will to remove himself from the comfortable spot he’s in and see himself out of the bar and to his home.

He can’t help but secretly savor the small victory he just got with tagging along with the Stareyes in Hargo’s place, idly nursing his refilled mug so to keep himself from falling asleep right away, one corner of his lips quirking up in a smug smirk ever so slightly. It’s not quite usual to—if unconsciously—earn Silgryn’s approval on him over his Moon Guard officer, and Illidan is not the one to let that pass unnoticed, very much less when his pride is at stake. 

And it may be his sheer jealousy talking, but he’d be lying to himself with not admitting how far he’s growing willing to go so to keep that insufferable _sart_ away from Mylenne.

_You know you’re disgraceful, don’t you, Stormrage? This sheer need of yours to have Mylie’s attentions is going to rot you, eventually. Why don’t you stop thinking about your nightmares and just court her already? For everyone’s sakes, at least…_

The wicked little voice in his head stops whispering all in a sudden as the bar’s doors open, a bald man making his way through in a languid manner, stretching his arms and yawning. “Oh, late for the party, again? Guess it’s becoming a habit of mine,” Oculeth chuckles, not bothering to greet the group as he manages to grab a mug for himself. “Did you find where our slippery friend is hiding, at least?”

Vanthir and Silgryn get on giving their friend the quick rundown, passing him the letter from the courtesan Verene for him to read, yet Illidan opts not to follow their line of conversation. “Come, let’s get you into bed, dear. It looks you’re in much need of a nap,” He hears Hargo approaching, prompting Mylenne to head away and onto the rooms on the first floor.

Taking the woman’s departure as a fair time to make his own, Illidan then summons the strength to rise from his seat, rubbing the muscles in his neck in an attempt to soothe some tension. “And you’re still here, lad?” Oculeth glances at him from behind Vanthir’s shoulder, a curious look on his face. “Haven’t you said something about someone you needed to fetch?”

Illidan stops in the middle of his way out, forehead creasing into a confused frown at Oculeth’s words. “What? When—“ He finds Mylenne looking at him from the bottom of the stairs, a violet eyebrow quirking up in question. It’s only when they lock gazes for a moment when he finally recalls what he was supposed to do way before meeting the woman at the merchant streets, half-unconsciously smacking his forehead. “Oh, crap, _Sylenna!_ I was supposed to meet her at the Temple!”

And as Mylenne nearly explodes in a fit of laughter, Illidan is then completely sure of one thing: Sister Sylenna is going to _kill_ him.

* * *

Vanthir’s idea of waiting until moonrise had been, somehow, quite fortunate and surprisingly fitting, allowing Illidan some more clarity and much-needed rest after his long tiresome week at the Stronghold and that blunt assault at the merchant's road. In all honestly, he haven’t had the sleep he’d really wanted—not after getting unusually aware of the cold sheets of his bed, lacking the female warmth he grew used to have for five months—but his displeasure doesn’t last for long as he adjusts the belts of his shoulder pads, grabbing the thickest cloak nearby before heading out.

A quick glance at the western road gives him the reminder of visiting Sylenna later in the night, adjusting the dark silver hood over his head as he goes on his way to the bar, opting to not be noticed. Luckily it’s his week off from work, yet he still keeps a steady pace, knowing deep down that the Stareyes are surely waiting for him after all.

Illidan is first greeted by Mylenne’s frostsaber half an hour later, the beast stretching languidly under the bar’s wooden roof, long rough tongue darting out as it—no, _she_ , getting the quick reminder on how to address animals properly—draws a long yawn, bumping her side against his hip as she goes to where Rak’shakar lays, below the nearest tree.

The people he’s looking for are already outside, Silgryn grunting a hello midway to his saber, clicking his fingers impatiently in an attempt to get the beast out of her lazy state. Meanwhile, Mylenne leans against the side of the bar’s entrance, not looking particularly pleased with her lover’s attentions on her, rolling her eyes and glancing away as Hargo helps with adjusting some leather bracers and shoulder pads properly. As he then cradles Mylenne’s face—seemingly prompting her to look at him—Illidan can’t keep an exasperated snort from escaping his lips, turning his back in a moment’s notice.

Fortunately, Hargo doesn’t mingle for too long, already dressed in his working clothes. “Goddess watch over you all. I’ll be at the Harbor if you need me,” He says, somehow somberly, sounding quite disinclined to leave the group right then, even if to tend to his duties. Unluckily, Illidan feels inclined to agree with the man this time—the sour and bitter mood coming from the Stareye relatives starting to get on his nerves as well.

As Vanthir makes his way out of the building, Mylenne nearly rushes her lover out and away, giving him a quick peck on his cheek before mounting his nightsaber, seeing himself out as he seems to notice he’s being slightly dense. Illidan then seizes the moment and approaches the woman, leaning down to kiss her cheek and greet her properly.

Somehow, it’s as she blushes ever so slightly when he recalls a _particular_ topic from the last morning, golden eyes narrowing at her and mouth curling in the faintest of smirks. Mylenne only huffs, giving him a hard glare, “I can practically see what you’re thinking right now, Lid. Please, just stop,” She comments, struggling to look stern yet failing to some extent, a half-amused smile showing on her face.

Illidan tilts his head a little, “You mean you already know what an insufferable _sart_ I believe your lover to be?” He half-lies, not feeling like needing to hide his thoughts of Hargo, “Or does that mean you’re never going to tell me about you and Jynn?” Her small amusement disappears from her face after his pondering, avoiding his gaze as she prefers to focus on crossing the strap of her arrow bag across her chest. “What? Are you ashamed of her or something?”

“What? No! Of course I’m not!” Mylenne nearly gapes at him as if shocked, silver eyes blowing wide. After another huff, she strides past him and to her beast, grabbing her jeweled saddle as her uncle passes it to her, shoulders hunching down as she works into adjusting it over Rak’shareh’s back. “What is there to say, though? Yeah, she was my… _first one._ ” A shrug follows, persistent in not looking at him.

Next to her and busy with his own saddle, Silgryn groans loudly, “Oh, for Elune’s tits, Mylie! We’re grown up people!” He complains, stopping his work for a moment to give her a knowing look, “Are you that shy to even say she was the first _dorei_ you _shagged_?”

His blunt honesty prompts Mylenne to gasp and cough awkwardly altogether, “ _Goddess_ , Sil! Then forgive me if I’m not up to telling everyone all the details of my intimate life so blatantly…” She remarks, her face completely flushed, doing her best into recovering some composure and definitely not succeeding when Illidan can’t help but chuckle at the sight. “Have I asked Illidan here how he knows about Jynn, at all? Of course not, because I’m not in my right—“

“How did you meet Jynn, lad?” Silgryn wonders rather bluntly, a deadpan expression on his face.

“Syra and I visited Scarleth’s brothel some decades back, one thing led up to another and I ended up sleeping with her,” He replies with a nonchalant shrug, not considering that memory as a big deal.

As Mylenne groans in disapproval, looking utterly embarrassed, the elder Stareye throws a quite satisfied smirk her way, “Theeeere you go! See? It was that easy,” His amusement lasts only for a moment, disappearing right after he settles upon his frostsaber’s back. “Now that’s all said and done, can we _please_ focus on this current matter of utmost importance?” The death glare the woman sends him speaks volumes, “Is that a yes? Why, thank you, guys! Now get your butts on the saddle and let’s ride. I’m _freezing_ already,”

Grumbling under her breath, still she obliges to Silgryn’s impatience, climbing to her saddle and outstretching a hand to encourage Illidan to follow. Her mood doesn’t seem to get better as he settles behind, careful with her arrow bag, a pretty much outstanding silver bow decorated with bright crescent moons and sapphires placed across her chest for better commodity.

As Vanthir climbs to his own saber for last, the woman adjusts a dark hood over her head before guiding Illidan’s hands to her waist, then prompting Rak’shareh to follow her sister into the forest with a pat on her side, setting a steady gallop to Val’sharah. With the Moon yet not rising, sheer silence clings heavily among the group as they ride—only disrupted by the swift stomps from the sabers over bare grass and Silgryn’s daggers clashing together from time to time.

It takes close to half an hour to reach the borders, Silgryn’s tension becoming more visible as they reach deeper into the forests—his aura growing unstable, pulsing with evident fury before his eyes. “Is it just me or Silgryn seems to be way too… troubled?” Illidan mutters low, only for Mylenne to hear.

“You _think_ so?” She says sarcastically, leaning down and pulling him by the wrist to avoid colliding face first with a couple of lower branches, her reflexes notably better than his. “Between us, I can’t be mad at him for it, though. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t be just as hysterical as him if my beloved were to be missing or in danger…”

Illidan hums in agreement, not missing her apparent slip up regarding the status of Silgryn’s relationship with Arluin. _The wanderer and the whisperer… guess I should have guessed that before._ “To be honest, sometimes it’s hard for me to think of you as just uncle and niece. You two are too much alike,”

An amused snort follows, “Yep, you can blame him for all my flaws,” She admits with a shrug, straightening as they get into a clearer path among the cerulean trees. “What can I say? He was the only one who raised me somewhat properly, even from the distance,” He can’t see her face, but her head leans down in a seemingly pensive posture, outstretching her hand to brush her fingertips over the tall grass they come across—either uncaring of losing her balance on the saddle or relying too much on her beast’s skills to keep them there.

Her reply doesn’t particularly shed a light about their relationship, for their strong bond has always been pretty noticeable for everyone. “I guess Sil is the only parent figure I ever had.” She says, sounding sad to some extent, almost melancholic.

Unable to help it, his hand reaches to lace his fingers with hers, squeezing lightly in an attempt to bring her some comfort, trying to make her know how much he understands with the gesture. In truth, he and Malfurion had become orphans at a way too young age for him to properly grasp what having parents really feel like, yet still, he knows how the _absence_ of them can take a toll on someone.

But then, what he doesn’t understand in the slightest is how a man like Lord Desdel Stareye can’t see the incredible inner strength his daughter had grown to show. For a so famous warrior like him, it sounds almost unbelievable for him not to get it; for there isn’t just strength with enduring, with _surviving_ , but also power—a force of will that can turn the smallest of leaves into ironbark.

And besides not showing that pretty often, Illidan knows a great deal about surviving. In some extent—as well as being honest with himself—it’s been actually what had driven him so far and to Suramar City. His arcane affinity and outstanding talent had only given him a certain advantage; a mere purpose, but not a motivation.

“You say that as you’ve been lonely and hopeless your whole life,” Illidan says softly, the frostsaber below slowing her pace as they seem to be close to their destination, “And yet, if you ask for my opinion, it looks like you amassed a big family through the years,” He then tilts his head to the side, prompting her attention to the humble bartender following their tracks, an endearing smile showing on the portion of her face he can glance at.

Vanthir nods back solemnly—as if he somehow knew what they were talking about—as the upper bridge leading to the eastern entrance of Black Rook Hold finally comes into view. Silgryn signals them to stop, procuring to keep the sabers and their riders among the shadows as he scans the area for possible scouts.

However, he wasn’t expecting for the elder Stareye to, then, drop off his mount and walk alone to the bridge.

Illidan’s forehead creases as he notices none of his companions looking as surprised and confused as he is—in some way, revealing all along how they knew of Silgryn’s course of action. “What’s he doing?” Still, he asks, unwilling to be left blind and out of the picture.

“Call it verifying the intel,” Vanthir replies, shifting as he scans the surroundings, looking skeptical yet appearing to be struggling to keep a controlled composure. “If Lord Stareye hasn’t yet started his… _campaign_ against Silgryn, then his guards should acknowledge him properly as the noble Lord he is and let him in without any struggle. If he has, though…”

_So, it’s that simple as just allowing Silgryn to walk right into the wolf’s den?_ Illidan thinks, trying very hard to grasp why are they being so reckless with just letting him on with that nonsense plan.  “You can’t arrest or hold any Highborne without sound proof. It could raise a scandal,” He keeps his real thoughts to himself, however, after considering it wouldn’t probably be the best moment to discuss what’s already ongoing.

He follows Mylenne as she drops off Rak’shareh, the woman finding a spot behind a tree to perch over, bow and three arrows already drawn out and prepared. Not a single remark comes from her, appearing utterly fixed in following her uncle’s figure as he stops before the bridge’s entrance—back straightened, hands clasped behind his back, dark violet mane tied in a high ponytail and waving softly; looking as the very picture of the noble Lord he seems to usually fight _not_ to be.

Four armored guards with silver bands in their forearms make their appearance, opening the gates and walking across the bridge, broadswords still holstered on their sides. While the group appears to talk to Silgryn nonchalantly—or at least not looking like hostiles at a first glance—Vanthir hums in thought. “Look, if you think of Lord Desdel as a mere pawn of the Court, then both of you are more naïve than I tho—“ He continues their previous line of conversation… or tries to.

For in the next moment, they’re left to watch as how—swift as a gust of wind—the elder Stareye draws a dagger from his back, slicing the throat of the guard before him in a single motion. “Mother Moon… Silgryn, you jerk! _Ana’duna thor!_ ”

Without a further word of advice, adrenaline kicks in as Illidan makes a sprint to the bridge, Vanthir charging in as well from atop his mount. His fists start glowing with arcane magic as he prepares a spell to cast, fixing his sights on the guard closest to Silgryn, huge broadsword drawn and prepared to strike. Illidan manages to disarm him with a blast pulsing from his palm, the weapon flying and falling down the bridge, its owner following after a kick from Silgryn straight in his armored chest.

“Come and get me, you _shitty pawns!_ ” He hears Silgryn taunting the rest of the Rooksguard, daggers on the ready as he slips into a battle stance. “You’ll only get to cuff my cold dead body!”

Illidan speeds up his sprint, dread starting to settle in his gut as he reaches the far end of the bridge, struggling to find a better position to force push the remaining guards without hitting the elder Stareye in the process. “Silgryn!” He tries to prompt his attention, knowing his two small daggers wouldn’t stand a chance against a couple of heavy broadswords, very much less so if they’re carried by two plate-armored guards.

Yet suddenly, either of them has the need to engage—a long whistling sound coming from afar, all but announcing danger. The two remaining guards stop short just as Silgryn and Illidan freeze, swords falling from their hands with a loud thump, a silver arrow piercing the middle of their foreheads.

Sheer silence permeates over the group, only shattered with the sound of armor clashing against the stone floor of the bridge. As Illidan slowly glances behind his shoulder, he exhales the breath he’d been unconsciously holding.

Mylenne stands proudly on a small cliff right next to the forest’s outskirts, staring back at them with her bow tightly clutched in one hand, a vicious resolve flashing in her bright silver eyes. As she comes to join them—walking with a particularly _smug_ sway of her hips—Illidan has to bite the inside of his cheek at the alluring sight of her, her long violet braid coming into view as the forest wind messes with her hood.

She looks just as gorgeous and fierce as a Moon Huntress, sending Illidan’s heart aflutter, not believing himself to have been any more captivated by the view in his entire life until then.

_And any more obsessed with someone as well. Most likely infatuated, I’d say. Oh, and probably under a_ charm _…_

It takes a disgusted huff from Silgryn to get out of his reverie, subtly shaking his head in an effort to take his eyes away from Mylenne, glancing at the man cleaning his bloodstained dagger with the fabric of his dirty boot. “Let’s head inside before they sound the alarm,” Silgryn growls before anyone can make a remark, taking the lead and walking through the open gates in long strides.

As Vanthir stays behind to provide some cover, the three of them come across the training yards, cautious of not being seen by some idle guard who may be walking around, their steps as silent and careful as a prowler. As for being the first time Illidan places a foot inside the Hold, his first thought is to crouch behind Mylenne, eventually coming to a stop as they find themselves having to choose between three routes leading to different towers.

Unlikely, their stealth doesn’t last for long as they get startled by the sound of a clearing throat, the elder Stareye being the fastest to react and turn around, a dagger ready to be thrown. “If you were trying to grace me with your sudden presence, consider me surprised,” The newcomer hums in thought, “Although my quarters are this way, not over there…”

“Jarod!” Mylenne half croaks, sighing in sheer relief and quickly pulling him to a more hidden spot, away from prying eyes. Illidan’s fists unclench with some hesitance as he tries to relate the name with the face— _right, Shadowsong, the one with the temperamental sister_ —relaxing just barely as the Stareyes get on giving him a quick rundown of the situation they’re in, not bothering with many details.

Illidan doesn’t have any idea of how Mylenne manages for her friend not to get mad at the chaos they’re making, yet either way, none of them are in a position to complain or hesitate as she convinces him to bring them to the Hold’s dungeons. After a tired huff, Shadowsong unlocks a metallic door with some reluctance, Silgryn patting him on the back affectionately before heading in.

It’s when Illidan attempts to follow when a gloved hand grabs him firmly by the elbow. “I’d suggest for him to stay behind, Myl,” Shadowsong first directs his words at his friend, missing—or _avoiding_ , Illidan can’t tell—the way his lips curl into a sneer at the absolute insolence of the man. Mylenne notices that, however, but she doesn’t get to comment on it, “Listen, there’s an anti-magic barrier inside, so his… _sorcery_ skills would be kind of useless or maybe injure him,” He insists, procuring to place some distance after Illidan sharply releases himself from his grasp.

The elder Stareye doesn’t bother to stop—he doesn’t rely on his magic after all—but as he heads inside Illidan can finally see the barrier placed before them, Silgryn’s natural aura fading away in a moment’s notice. A sense of unease assaults him, yet he fights against it and swallows it down. He hasn't got that far with those two just to stop right now because of a barrier… and he’ll be damned if he’s to be left behind with _Shadowsong_ , of all people.

He shares a fleeting look with Mylenne before outstretching a hand forward, a weird tingle running up his forearm, goosebumps showing as he goes through; still, the feeling is not particularly hurtful, just slightly odd. So, he dares to test the waters even further, applying more concentration than usual into summoning an arcane flame onto his palm.

It takes a second longer than expected, but they’re left to marvel as a bright purplish glow appears before them.

Shadowsong hums in slight disapproval, but the Stareyes don’t seem to have eyes for anyone else but Illidan, beaming at him in awe. “Oh, lad, I could _kiss you_ right now,” Silgryn breathes, prompting him inside without hesitation, leaving Illidan only with a moment to glance behind his shoulder and flash a very sly smirk at Mylenne—the woman smiling back proudly, silver gaze intent and briefly intense on him. “Come on, let’s move, it’s near moonrise! Mylie, help Jarod with covering our tracks,”

As it’s been since sunset, everyone complies with Silgryn’s orders, leaving Illidan alone with the man as they delve deeper into the dungeons, taking copious routes downstairs and across empty prisons. He feels as if they’re going through a labyrinth, dark skin heating up due to his magic unwilling to flicker out and a drop of sweat running down his temple, although he can’t guess how much time they’d been going through in their search for Arluin—if there ever is one, however—not a single window nearby to figure out the time of night.

Silgryn’s frustration becomes almost palpable, even without the flaring of his aura, looking dangerously close to either give up or breaking into every prison they come across, empty or otherwise. Until a hoarse voice croaks from the hallway, “… Sil? Is that you, d-dear?” Without needing to be asked to, Illidan casts an easy spell to track the origins of the voice, a purplish mist leading the way across one corner, slipping under a reinforced door far ahead.

“Arluin! Oh, thank Elune… I knew my gut was right,” Silgryn cries as he runs past him, trying to catch a glimpse of the prisoner inside as he looks through a small barred window. “Honey, you look—“ A hard swallow follows, evident guilt plastered on his face, “I’m getting you out, Luin, just hold on.” 

Right as when the elder Stareye works into breaking the lock with his dagger and a pin, near ear-piercing alarms flare around them, so loud and almost muffling the sound of a door slamming open some floors above. “ _Silgryn_ …” Illidan growls, a clear warning in his voice.

He’s only replied with curses and grumbles. However, the lock gives up a minute later, Silgryn pushing his way in and nearly throwing himself beside his lover. “Luin, oh Goddess… just look at yourself. Did a bear stomp over your face on your way here?”

Illidan can’t see him properly from where he stands, yet he only needs a glimpse at a portion of Arluin’s face to understand Silgryn’s near panic. He’s no stranger to violence, but Illidan knows he’d ever have thought of Arluin getting beaten only for a silly grudge. _Something is very, very wrong with all this. In what awful mess did he get himself into?_

“Heh, can’t complain… got treated by Lord _Sar’thera_ himself,” Arluin sounds utterly tired, his hard nose appearing to be broken, thick dark blood dripping down his face. Clinging heavily on Silgryn’s leather vest as his lover helps with straightening him up, he tries to continue, “Yo-you shouldn’t be here, Sil. The letters, couldn’t intercept them before—he _killed_ my birds, Sil, I couldn’t j-just…”

Barks and shouts reverberate across the hallway, bringing Illidan to enter the prison and close the door behind him, obliging with the first thing that comes to his mind. “Ssh, honey, let’s leave that up for later,” Silgryn soothes his lover, holding him closer as he spares a glance over his shoulder, “Illidan, please tell me you have a plan. I’m afraid mine just kind of ended up after we stepped through the main gates,”

Illidan doesn’t miss the mention of his name, taking a deep breath so to keep his composure. “Yeah, I thought as much,” Sheer adrenaline seizes him as he hears sounds of hurried steps becoming closer, no longer muffled by the flaring alarms of the building. As his fists clench and unclench with anxiety, he finally comes with an idea. “Here, hold onto me. But I’m warning you, this probably won’t be nice,”

Encouraging the couple to grab his forearm, Illidan does his best to clear his mind of all distracting thoughts, shutting his eyes close as he focuses with all his might into casting one of his signature spells—a very special one, the very same that captured the Conjurers’ attention some decades back and gave him a way into the Moon Guard order. “ _Pare’tharas_ …” The room trembles ever so slightly with the force of his magic, two hands gripping harder onto him. “… _amurabar, pare’tharas…”_

With his sheer concentration, Illidan doesn’t get to glimpse the moment when the three of them are ripped away from the prison and space itself. However, judging by a choking gasp coming from someone else and the feeling of the moonlight stroking his face once more, he knows he’d succeeded—the view of Val’sharah’s forest appearing before him once his eyes drift open.

With some dizziness showing in his face, Silgryn falls onto his back, still holding the small and beaten form of Arluin looking to be clinging to him for dear life. “By the holy tits of Elune… it worked, I can’t believe it!” He pants, scrambling for some purchase yet unwilling to let go of his lover at the same time, “I only saw Aedriel managing to—“

“Dear Goddess… I’m not even sure if to ask,” Vanthir appears from the outskirts, staring at them in sheer astonishment, his reaction unconsciously feeding Illidan’s ego, if slightly. However, he doesn’t have time to savor it properly, not when Mylenne is galloping in their direction at full speed, Silgryn’s frostsaber at par with her sibling.

She reaches them in a moment’s notice, pushing Illidan’s forearm not so gently to prompt him onto her saber’s saddle. Rak’shakar drops next to her owner as they all work into carrying Arluin atop the beast, the man looking too weak for everyone’s liking. Illidan only gets to hop in behind the woman before her saber gets on the move again, the group scrambling in different directions in no time.

“What now?” Illidan can’t help but wonder, trying to catch up with everyone in some way or another.

A dark chuckle follows. “Now you hold tight onto me… if you know what’s best,” Mylenne says in a sultry tone, distracting him for a mere second—right before the frostsaber below rushes into the forest faster than a violent gust of wind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I got way too carried away with the length of this chapter, and I deeply apologize about that D: In my defense, lots of things happened! Right?  _Right!?_  
>  By the way, you know that ‘little evil voice’ in Illidan’s head? I think that’s actually me.  
> :D


	19. Azure Binding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Besides her, Jarod doesn’t seem to be quite comfortable with the scene below, yet it’s as an expectant silence falls over them all and the crowned woman turns to the crowd with a big smile, dozens of memories from another lifetime assault Mylenne’s mind—recollections of the assured _dorei_ Aedriel Stareye once were, proudly carrying the weight of her position and name as she walked the Highborne streets of Suramar, her golden diadem high and mighty for everyone to see and admire. Even as a child, Mylenne was never oblivious to how important her rank appeared to be for her _Min’da_ , always looking like the place she really belonged; the path Aedriel was born and fated to take.
> 
> “My beloved citizens, I am delighted to present this one now joining my Court,” Mylenne’s breath hitches in sudden surprise as arcane sigils begin to flare above the woman, giving her a more impressive appearance—grandiose, imposing, larger than life. “Here stands before you, Thalyssra, First Arcanist of the Court of Suramar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [To Callane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/callane/), an amazing writer who encouraged me to keep trying and have been there when I was near rock bottom. All my love goes to her ♥  
>  Now go and shove her with kudos, comments, and love! She totally deserves them :D :D 
> 
>  
> 
> **Not so much TWs this time, probably warning for lots of plotting (?)**

** Darnassian: **

**Quel / Quel’dorei:** Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

**Min'da** : Mother.

**Erana-dora isil:**  May translate to, "A thousand thanks upon you".

**Dalah’dorei:** An endearment. Can be translated to “My child/children” or “Child/children of mine”.  Trivia: Despite ‘dalah’ being literal my/mine pronouns, ‘dorei’ doesn’t necessarily refers to a youngster in some cases. 

* * *

** Stareye **

**One month later**

Even with the huge wall made of ostentatious cerulean trees providing some shelter, Mylenne has the need of adjusting her fur coat over her shoulders, a cold shiver sending her skin into goosebumps as the autumn wind reaches her spot. As she lets her mind wander, she idly strokes the silvery fur of her cloak, silently thanking her uncle for his latest gift and for his constant ahead thoughts—as for their people being close to face probably one of the coldest winters so far, if the harsh autumn hadn’t said so just as clearly. 

It’s a wonder how she keeps a cool composure when she spots her friend coming over to her bench, face slightly scrunched and silver brows furrowed, speaking volumes about his current state of mind without having the need to voice it. It’s fortunate she hadn’t had the need to wait for their meeting much longer, sending a quick smile his way before moving to give him a spot on her bench to sit.

However, Jarod looks skeptical to oblige right away, arms crossing over his broad chest as he stands before her, “Well, you genuinely surprised me with sending me a letter all along,” Even with his clear irritation plastered on his face, his tone is softer as he speaks, seemingly more curious rather than anything else. “With Silgryn finally in town and so many sorcerers around you, for a moment I thought you forgot about your old, _real_ friends…”

“It’s not—ugh, Jarod,” She sighs deeply, eyes dropping as a sense of shame assaults her, not having the strength to properly scold him for that awful remark, “I know we’ve been apart for longer than usual. In all honesty, I thought we both needed some time for ourselves to figure some things out,” A slight shrug follows, unwilling to look at him just yet, “You with Maiev and the Rooksguard. Me, well, with her too and all this… utter mess that is my life so far,”

Her comment prompts Jarod to shift uncomfortably in his spot, leaning his weight on his other hip as a tired sigh escapes his mouth, arms falling to the sides in apparent defeat. “Yeah, I guess we’re both to blame on that,” He admits—if with some reluctance in his voice—before taking the offered seat next to her. “Sister’s coming back soon, though. Here’s hoping I can see her before returning to duty, maybe we can set up a weekend and hang out, the three of us,”

The tint of hope in his voice brings warmth blooming along her chest, a pleasant feeling that not even the cold weather can take away, “I’d very much like that,” Mylenne smiles, gloved fingers interlocking with his, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Silgryn and his friends will be delighted to see you both, I can tell. At least I know Vanthir would love to drag Mai into exchanging kimchi recipes,” An endearing chuckle escapes her as she has a mental picture of her childhood friend and the bartender, probably too engrossed in a discussion about proper cooking to pay attention to anyone else. “Just remind me of keeping us away from playing cards with Arluin if he happens to be around. He’s a cheater.”

“Yeah, well, about that…” Jarod’s face becomes somber and skeptical once more, biting his lower lip as he lets go of her hand and rests his elbows on his knees, making her frown worryingly at his renewed distraught state. “Are you going to explain what really happened the last month at the Hold? Don’t I deserve to know?”

Mylenne can’t help with imitating his posture, a tired sigh following after having to face that conversation way earlier than expected. Sure enough, she owes him as much and he really deserves to hear the whole truth behind their sudden assault at Black Rook Hold—if anyone ever does, it’s definitely Jarod.

Regardless, at times like those, for her it’s easier said than done.

She spares a glance at him, silence stretching over them, tension growing alongside the sudden rising of the autumn wind, goosebumps showing on the portions of her exposed skin. “I… I wasn’t lying when I explained our situation, back at the training yards,” Mylenne begins, hesitating to take his hand in hers again, yet deeply wanting to soothe him somehow, “Ugh, look, I know what we did was wrong in so many ways. We weren’t really looking forward to assaulting the Hold like that, Jarod. At least _I wasn’t_ , and you know how much I hate fighting,”

“But you went on with that anyway, Mylenne,” He nearly snaps, moving away from her as he faces her properly, jaw clenching in a seeming struggle to keep his composure. “And whatever it was what you wanted, you still _killed_ some of my colleagues in cold blood. I… I still can’t believe what you and your uncle did,”

She does her best to hold his offended stare, a hard lump forming in her throat, “I know, and I don’t have any excuse for what I did, except for my truth,” Without thinking so much about it, Mylenne takes his hand again, unconsciously looking for some tiny sense of comfort—something they both seem to need. “Honestly? When I saw father’s guards attempting to cuff Sil, I got truly mad; I couldn’t do anything else but _react_ ,” She shakes her head sharply, unwilling to summon the memories of what followed next, “You have to understand, Jarod. The mere thought of something happening to Silgryn…”

“And _honestly_ ,” He remarks, adding with a quirk of his silver brows, “I’m still thanking the Goddess for _my group_ not being on patrol that night.” An exhausted sigh follows, the man staring at nowhere in particular as he runs a troubled hand through his silver mane, cascading over his shoulders. “At least you get something good from all the chaos you made?”

How she’s managing for one of her longest and dearest friends to not be seriously mad at her just yet, Mylenne has no idea. However, she’s not the one to look a cat gift in the mouth. “We brought Arluin back and alive. I’d say that’s enough of a reward for our efforts,” She shrugs, trying to look nonchalant, not bothering to comment further on it and remark that Arluin is still recovering—it’s not like Jarod wouldn’t know her father’s twisted methods on gathering information anyhow.

Somehow, from the way he slightly shivers in a distressed manner, that tells Mylenne he had probably been thinking about the same thing. “So, you got to kill some of your father’s guards in the process. Silgryn must be pretty much happy with that outcome,” A colder gust of wind rushing from the bay up north prompts him to rise, rubbing his hands and blowing air on them as he looks for a better spot to perch on. “Ugh, let’s get out of here before my ears fall off. This is really the worst place to be, right now.”

Agreeing wholeheartedly—along with mentally cursing herself for her poor choice of place to meet—she’s quick in edging closer to her friend, sharing their cloaks and sticking together rather clumsily, attempting to share some body heat. “Goddess, I truly hate this weather. If I only could summon my magic to get us warm…” Mylenne laments, thinking out loud as she allows Jarod to lead the way out.

Inhaling a sharp breath, Jarod tugs at the front of her cloak not-so-gently, pulling her closer. “ _No_ , Myl. Don’t even _think_ about it,” His face tightens, nearly stopping short yet seeming to force himself to keep moving. “It’s unhealthy for you to even _try_ doing that. And I’d appreciate if you stop making me worry every time. I’m already having my hands full with Maiev, mind you,”

Clearly unwilling to summon another delicate topic, she only sighs heavily and keeps silent, the biggest park in Suramar City disappearing from sight as they turn around the corner. The pompous streets are surprisingly not as crowded as expected, allowing the pair to settle for some small talk—still, keeping their voices low, always wary and careful for whoever might be prying around the false safety that always has been the Highborne streets.

Eventually, Jarod prompts his friend to tell him how the previous unfortunate event had started. “Sil found out of father’s plans for us. That’s how everything started, so to say,” She waits for a random merchant to pass by before continuing, tucking a little closer to whisper. “At first, he only knew father was arranging a marriage for me, so Arluin offered to investigate further. None of them knew _you_ were involved until I admitted so, though, but now I know father’s already working on it. His guards have been informed already, so I can’t think otherwise…”

Jarod hums low, his lips pursing as if pondering over the information. “But how did Arluin managed to get captured?” He wonders, glancing at her half suspiciously. “For a… _slippery dorei_ as him, it does sound somewhat odd. You know that, at least?”

Mylenne nods in admittance, turning around the corner and avoiding taking the streets leading up to the Bay. “From what I know, Arluin was planning to intercept one of father’s couriers,” She continues, trying to recall everything she can, “However, in the middle, father somehow found out about Silgryn’s return to Suramar—and his prying—ending up with Arluin’s people getting killed and he getting captured.” A tired sigh escapes her lips, growing disgusted at the mere thought, “Arluin got it easy, but those poor people… he’s not handling that well, Jarod. It’s still hard to take that _my own father_ is to blame for all this…”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Jarod snorts, teeth clenching hard behind his pale lips, tight and perturbed as the rest of his scrunched face. “But what was that courier carrying that was so important for Arluin?”

Creases show on Mylenne’s lavender forehead as she frowns harder. “A sealed letter to Duchess Lunastre, that’s all we know. It’s not hard to guess what was possibly written there, though—either the formal request for our… _union_ , or one to allow Silgryn to be banished and ripped off from his title. Maybe both,”

It’s not particularly a surprise to bring up the topic of Lord Desdel’s dispute with the second head of their Household and rightful heir of Aedriel Stareye’s legacy. It’s always been known for her father to spend his entire life to keep improving his status—consequently, never seeming to find a limit in his goals—and still, going to such lengths only to get rid of his ‘contender’? Mylenne has always considered herself quite ignorant regarding Highborne politics, but then the mere thought of being involved or even participate in the twisted Game of the Court disgusts her to no end.

Their walk remains silent for a while, both her and her friend quite lost in their own thoughts as they turn around another street, a moderately big crowd appearing before them. “This is pretty hard to take in. As much as I want to help you, I’m afraid my hands are tied, Myl.” Jarod ends up lamenting, “My career… Mother Moon, _my own head_ is at risk if I decline the arrangement,” He remarks with a shake of his head, sharply rubbing his face as they go, “Ugh, if only Maiev was here, she’d know what to do…”

Whatever further comment gets lost in Mylenne’s tongue as the growing crowd captures her attention, not noticing before they had arrived at the Court of Stars. Curiosity narrows her lavender face, prompting Jarod to follow her and taking some stairs up, looking forward to having a better position so to see what all the fuss is about.

Minding with covering her head and noteworthy mane with the hood of her cloak to keep herself from being easily found out, Mylenne then leans her arms against the railing, watching an event which seems to already have started. Violet brows quirk up in surprise as she spots a lot of members from Elisande’s Court below and ahead—the very Grand Magistrix sauntering up front, her loyal Advisors and Arcanists at the back and right behind her heels, all taking places around the tallest of stages.

From their far ahead position, neither of them can properly hear the speech of the Grand Magistrix to the crowd, but it gets easier to recognize the particular purple robes that could only belong to members of the Moon Guard; the Spellcasters straight and still as a statue, blades and staves shown proudly as they make a physical wall between _quel’dorei_ and the rest of the commonfolk who happens to be around.

A particular cobalt mane among the Guard brings out a sheepish smile to Mylenne’s lips, keeping her eyes on him as Jarod joins her, leaning his side against the railing. “Well, you already know I have more… _tolerance_ than my sister regarding this,” He has to admit, not bothering to watch the show below and facing his friend. “But honestly, Myl, _Sorcerers_? Do I still have to remind you how dangerous they are? At least he’s keeping his magic away from you?”

Mylenne snorts loudly, rolling her eyes and glancing away from the nice view below, a sense of irritation following with the mere topic brought up. “Stop that, Jarod. Illidan’s different,” She says sharply, flicking a gloved finger in the air and close to his face as if to prove her point, “He’s really a good _dorei_. We have grown pretty close in the last years, and even Silgryn has also grown fond of him. That should say a lot…”

However, it’s as she insists further with defending Illidan, Jarod’s eyes grow slightly wide, his face narrowing with evident confusion. “Uhm, I… was actually talking about that one,” He explains, stabbing a thumb in direction to the current event they’re attending. “What was his name, Hargo’then?” His nose and mouth scrunch, a mix of mortification and amusement plastered all over his face. “Er, has that changed while I was away? _Switched_ Sorcerers all in a sudden?”

Mylenne’s cheeks darken in a mere instant. “W-what? No! I’m not with Illi—no, _no!_ ” Wanting to smack her face, all she can do is look away from Jarod, sheer embarrassment covering her features. “Illidan and I are just friends, that’s all there is!” She insists, completely unsure why she does so—and with her best friend, of all _dorei_ —feeling like sorely wanting to drag her stupid self into a hole, only to come out on the next Embrace.

From her periphery, she can only notice Jarod’s silver mane waving as he shakes his head, “Uh… alright?” Luckily for her, he doesn’t insist or get nosey in the matter, apparently not as interested as she’d thought at first. “I must admit, I think I prefer your current lover, though. Maybe because he looks way more harmless than this Illidan,” A shrug of dismissal follows, prompting Mylenne to stop trying to hide her mortified face as he gently tucks a hand under her elbow, “It’s not my business who you bring into your sheets, either way…”

They don’t have a chance to continue their conversation as the mindless chatter from the crowd around stops all in a sudden, all kaldorei eyes focusing their attention on the Grand Magistrix and her court as a big line spreads before them. While a tall woman dressed in flamboyant purple robes approaches to the stage, escorted by two taller _dorei_ who can only seem to be the First and Second Blade of Elisande, all heads courtly bow before her—some of the commonfolk following their respects with the sign of Elune.

As the Sorceress kneels to Elisande, Mylenne can’t help but wonder if the Grand Magistrix had smiled so dearly at her mother, Aedriel Stareye, when she proclaimed her as Advisor the same way she does with that one. “You came to me as a Conjurer,” Elisande begins, her assured voice booming all around the Court of Stars as she carefully places a bright, heavy diadem over the woman’s teal-haired head, shimmering in shades of silver and purple. “Now rise and claim your rightful place among my Court, where you belong…”

Besides her, Jarod doesn’t seem to be quite comfortable with the scene below, yet it’s as an expectant silence falls over them all and the crowned woman turns to the crowd with a big smile, dozens of memories from another lifetime assault Mylenne’s mind—recollections of the assured _dorei_ Aedriel Stareye once were, proudly carrying the weight of her position and name as she walked the Highborne streets of Suramar, her golden diadem high and mighty for everyone to see and admire. Even as a child, Mylenne was never oblivious to how important her rank appeared to be for her _Min’da_ , always looking like the place she really belonged; the path Aedriel was born and fated to take.

“My beloved citizens, I am delighted to present this one now joining my Court,” Mylenne’s breath hitches in sudden surprise as arcane sigils begin to flare above the woman, giving her a more impressive appearance—grandiose, imposing, larger than life. “Here stands before you, Thalyssra, First Arcanist of the Court of Suramar.”

Jarod gasps at the sight below, slightly flinching away from the railing they’re still leaning onto, yet even with standing beside her, Mylenne can barely hear a small sound of protest coming from him with the crowd exploding in a round of applause and blessings. “ _Erana-dora isil,_ people of Suramar, for your faithful support on our beloved Grand Magistrix—“ Thalyssra begins what it seems like a humble speech, bringing her much adorned hands to her chest in a grateful manner.

Neither Mylenne nor Jarod gets to listen for long before deciding to take their leave, taking some advantage of the bursting crowd below to pass unnoticed as they walk down the stairs, arms linked tight. However, they don’t get much further before the sound of a clearing throat interrupts their way out; Mylenne’s hold on her friend tightening pretty much unconsciously, prompting Jarod to rest a gloved hand atop hers in a soothing manner—and a silent sign to stay calm—before glancing behind his shoulder.

Violet brows quirk up in both suspicion and curiosity as two familiar sisters appear at the bottom of the stairs, the tallest woman sending a sly smirk and a brief wink her way. “Uh, Lady Starweave?” Mylenne doesn’t particularly voice it as a question, patting Jarod’s hand as a sign for him to relax before joining the women—Jarod growing suspiciously silent along the way.

“I… must admit I was not really expecting to meet you around here,” Mylenne smiles sheepishly, nodding at the pair in greeting, keeping the best courteous behavior she can manage, “I had figured out you two would be among the guard or at the Temple,”

The Sorceress merely snorts. “Nah, initiates weren’t allowed to assist,” Syrana brushes her off with an elegant flick of her wrist, her midnight blue gown shimmering faintly under the moonlight, “But still, where else would we be, milady? Honestly, I’d thought I’d be seeing you alongside Lady Ailen this evening,” Without any remorse nor shame, her golden gaze _roams_ all over Jarod, her smirk widening, “But your current company seems to be far more… _interesting_ ,”

Syrana’s sister elbows her on the side, a faint blush clinging to her cheeks, “Sister, stop it—“ Shalasyr says through gritted teeth, sending her sister a brief—yet quite obvious—glare, “You’re already making me regret coming with you. Worst part is I didn’t even have to come in the first place…”

“Bah! And keeping my lovely sister from having the most _boring_ evening in decades?” A near laughter escapes Syrana, her dim western accent making it somehow musical, resting a gloved arm over her sister’s shoulders, “Besides, someone needs to start teaching you the ways of the Court before you end up as clumsy as Lady Stareye here,” Syrana explains, tilting her head in Mylenne’s direction, “… No offense, by the way,”

“None taken,” Mylenne only shrugs nonchalantly, noticing the only man around shifting somewhat uncomfortably beside her. “Uh, ah, yes, talking about my clumsy manners; Jarod, this is Lady Syrana of House Starweave, and her sister, Lady Shalasyr,”

With no small surprise—at least for a _dorei_ like Jarod—he bows elegantly before the women, a very polite smile narrowing his face, “It is my pleasure, Lady Syrana,” He acknowledges the taller one before delicately grabbing her sister’s hand with both of his, kissing the back of it, “Shalasyr…”

Syrana and Mylenne share a funny look, the latter blinking thrice in some confusion. “ _Ahem_ ,” The Sorceress in the group clears her throat pretty much exaggeratedly, yet Jarod seems to pay her no mind—his silver gaze still set on Shalasyr’s growing flushing face. Eventually, Syrana opts to give up with recalling the other pair’s attention, “Anyways, I’m sure you’ll know better than me, but we’ve encountered a… _bird_ among the crowd, and I believe this is for you,”

From a small blue sack clinging on her side, Syrana brings out a rolled piece of parchment, sealed up with what could only be the _old_ sigil of House Stareye—with the usual violet eye and silver star, yet this one having its northern point in golden shades.

“Send Silgryn my regards, would you?” Syrana adds, returning to link arms with her sister, seemingly attempting to take her away from Mylenne’s friend as subtly as she can. “Oh, and tell him mother says hi and welcome back!”

Jarod doesn’t seem at all pleased with the sisters leaving, long ears curving downwards—if only briefly, recomposing all in a sudden after noticing Mylenne’s fully amused smirk. Knowing she will only bring out a defensive attitude, Mylenne merely makes a gesture of sealed lips, filling what seems like an _interesting_ conversation for later as she focuses on opening Silgryn’s letter.

“ _Dalah’dorei,_

_Ah, I can’t believe how horribly the_ sart _of your father has decorated this lovely house of my childhood. Honestly, sometimes I can’t figure out why Drie married him, at all. This isn’t a silver tapestry, it’s flat gray, and the most_ hideous _and_ depressive _gray I’ve ever seen in my life! A stupid rock has more life than this horrible shade, I’m serious!_

_Anyways, why don’t you come over and help me with some… redecoration? I’m feeling like throwing a party, you know, for old times’ sake. This Manor has so many memories it’s starting to_ stink _in here, so I could do with my favorite niece around._

_Eh, to be honest, I actually need you in here. Bring Song Boy if you want! Yes, I know you’re with him—and don’t mind this_ very particular dorei _doing a remarkable job of_ sulking _too much when he found out about it. You just be thankful I’m fond of Sulky already, but next time I’ll kick his handsome ass if he keeps nosing about and around. Really, you should keep a leash on your Sorcerers…_

_Now come over! I’m getting way too bored, and you don’t like me being bored. Boring it’s bad._

_Your favorite_ dorei _in the world.”_

* * *

The moon is close to coming to her rest for the night as Mylenne and Jarod arrive at the Stareye Manor, although the two friends don’t get to reach the main gates before being greeted by one of Mylenne’s maids, Loratha. “Mistress Mylenne! Oh, thank the Goddess you came!” The woman pants as she rushes to them in a haste, “I am afraid we are dealing with a certain… _inconvenience_ at the moment,”

Mylenne only snorts, flicking her wrist in dismissal, “No need to tell me about it, I know uncle Silgryn’s here,” She explains, resting a gloved hand on her maid’s shoulder, allowing her a moment to have a breath.

The lack of any guards on their surroundings gives away the absence of the resident Lord and Stareye patriarch, leaving the Manor pretty much uninhabited; merely with some house cleaners here and there and Mylenne’s maids to wander about. As Jarod takes care of closing the main gates, he’s forced to wait briefly as Rak’shareh—not surprisingly—appears out of nowhere past the corner of the outskirts, trotting in and bumping Mylenne on the side in a greeting manner.

Mylenne rubs her saber between the ears before the beast makes her way to the gardens. “The master will not be pleased with this, milady,” Loratha makes a remark as she leads the two kaldorei into the house, casting a worried look at her while she holds the door open for them to enter first. “Do you think you can keep Lord Silgryn from— _aah!_ ”

Loratha’s first instinct is to cover her head while a porcelain vase clashes against the wall, making all of them startle and jump away. A shameless snicker leads Mylenne to the direction of the _dorei_ demolishing the decoration, bowing at her in an exaggerated manner. “ _Elune-Adore_ , milady! Your timing is impeccable!” Silgryn Stareye beams at them, looking terribly pleased with himself, “And you brought little Song Boy with you!”

“What in Elune’s name are you doing?” Mylenne barks, not bothering to greet him properly—not when she’d last seen him first hour on the evening—holding her chest in an attempt to calm her racing heart. “You’re scaring the servants, uncle! You want to drag all of them in here?”

“Well, duh, that’s the point?” Silgryn clicks his tongue, swaggering into the main hall without looking back, dark-violet hair falling over the thick fur of his shoulderpads, “Besides, I already told you Lord _Piece of Shit_ has a horrible taste. I’m merely doing us a _favor_ ,”

“Stareyes butting heads. Why am I not surprised?” Jarod scrubs his face tiredly; nose scrunching as if he’d already smelled something wrong.

His comment prompts Silgryn to cast a hard look at him over his shoulder, “Aha, and you genuinely thought I’d leave all this be, just like that? After what he did to Arluin?” He sneers through clenched teeth, yet his annoyance doesn’t last for long before returning to his usual arrogant demeanor, “Now, boy, what about you help with calling the rest of the servants so we can get this party started, shall we?” Jarod grumbles something under his breath, shaking his head in apparent defeat before retreating with Loratha to the opposite room on the Manor.

However, a sort of reply comes from behind Mylenne, “Oh, I can’t wait…” They say, a baritone voice rumbling with deep sarcasm.

For the second time in the evening, Mylenne outright jumps away, a small squeak escaping her lips. “What the—? What are you two doing here?” She exclaims as she turns around and to the source of the familiar voice.

Sitting atop the long table in the middle of the main hall, Illidan casts an alluring smirk her way, his golden gaze gleaming in some amusement before returning it to a book he’d apparently been reading in her absence—and snatched from her personal bookshelf, if the cover is anything to go by. While Mylenne’s somewhat aware she should feel offended by her acquaintances nearly _invading_ her place, it’s as her handsome friend’s smirk widens when she can’t help but sigh in defeat.

“In our defense, he dragged us,” Lothrius states, having some decency of being seated in a chair, unlike his best friend, pointing at Silgryn with a letter opener, looking utterly bored while cleaning his long nails with the sharp tip.

“And in _my_ defense, they were pretty fine with obliging,” Illidan merely shrugs off Silgryn’s remark, not bothering with insisting otherwise nor glancing away from the book he’s reading—although making a terrible work of pretending he’s reading something at all. Mylenne can only snatch her book away from his hands before being interrupted by Jarod and the servants arriving at the hall.

“Well, that was fast. You even saved me from making more excuses,” Silgryn looks surprised, all eyes turning to the six servants acknowledging him properly as they gather around, silent and obedient as usual.

“Alright, thank you for coming, guys. Sooooo, ahem—I, Silgryn, firstborn son of Laenia and Seldron, rightful and _only_ Lord of House Stareye… blah blah blah,” He begins with a solemn tone, although it doesn’t take long for him to brush off the annoying formalities. “With Lady Mylenne as my witness and by the title that’s been granted to me, I now release you from your faithful service to this House. We are deeply grateful for your centuries of dedication to us, but from now on, you’ll no longer be required.”

Sheer silence overcomes the hall, Mylenne’s eyes blowing wide at the sudden announcement, her maids looking rather confused as well. Did her uncle just kick _all_ the servants? _By the Goddess, father’s going to be so pissed with this…_ “Oh, and by the way: If someone asks, Mylie actually wasn’t here,” Silgryn takes care of adding, stabbing a thumb past his shoulder and in her general direction.

Mylenne finds herself lost for words—the tome nearly falling from her hands if not for Illidan quickly retrieving it with fast reflexes—merely left staring at her uncle slack-mouthed as he has a brief chat with the servants, already pondering the possible awful outcomes this action would bring upon her. Illidan doesn’t make a comment, however, only casting a worried look at her, dropping the book somewhere else afterwards to gently grab her gloved hands; words not needed as he rubs his thumbs in soothing circles on her wrists.

She sends a brief thankful smile his way, knowing she’ll have Illidan’s support no matter what—although it’s hard to tell if he could actually be of any help when Lord Desdel finally finds out about Silgryn’s schemes. _I can’t believe how much my family sucks._

“This is a nice place, though. I don’t really get Silgryn’s complaints with the décor,” Lothrius breaks the silence, throwing his feet over the table and besides his friend, prompting their attention, “What can I say? The drapes look silver to me…” He shrugs, looking quite sincere.

Mylenne’s aware the pair of Sorcerers are only attempting to distract her in some way, a fact of which she’s deeply grateful. “And that’s why we should thank Elune for having Syrana among us,” Illidan snorts as he makes a barrier between Mylenne and his friend with his knee, in a sort of protective manner, “That’s gray, not silver, Loth, and indeed not really appealing to the eye. You should stick to making music, because I’m afraid your lack of proper style is quite disappointing…”

The only Lady around is about to make a comment, but the growing relaxing mood gets brushed away when her uncle returns to the hall, a very frustrated Jarod following his tracks. “What? You thought I wouldn’t ever make use of my Lordship? Well, flash news, boy!” Silgryn cackles, slamming the big main hall’s doors close with a click of his fingers, “Now, chop chop! Sulky, I need you to stop staring at my niece’s tits and focus on me,” The elder Stareye then deadpans out of the blue.

A mix of gasps and quiet chuckles follow, “ _Silgryn!_ ” Mylenne exclaims, sending a shocked look his way while Illidan’s fingers instantly stop toying idly with a strand of her violet mane, looking reluctant to say something with the men’s scrutiny suddenly over him.

Silgryn claps once, “That’s the spirit!” He smiles wickedly, definitely satisfied with their reaction, “So, now that we’re away from prying eyes and ears: The main purpose of bringing you all here is because we’re looking for a small metallic case, aaaand I may be in need of your fancy magics to locate it,” Calling out the two Sorcerers, his long cloak waves elegantly as he saunters across the room, making Mylenne and Jarod wince while he settles for breaking another vase without care or shame in the world. “As far as I know, this case has magic resistance, so that should give it away somehow. Sadly enough, I’m not as skilled as you two and can’t see runes for shit, so I guess that’s where you come in,”

Not bothering to correct her uncle’s awful language, Mylenne settles for giving up on whatever way of interfering, sighing heavily in defeat and flopping down on Lothrius’ seat after he vacates it. Illidan gives her a friendly pat on her shoulder, yet he too obliges Silgryn’s request—out of sheer curiosity rather than anything else, if she can tell by the quirk of his cobalt brows.

Jarod leans his side against the table and besides her chair, scrubbing his face tiredly, although either making any comment. “And what does this case has that’s so important to you to drag all of us into _my house_?” Mylenne can’t help but wonder out loud, Lothrius and Illidan’s unfamiliar spells catching her eye as purplish waves of magic flare and swirl around the hall.

“Answers.” Her uncle merely replies, definitely not looking like explaining further. It’s as Mylenne casts a deep frown his way when he groans in protest, “Oh, shush, Mylie. You can’t possibly expect me to hand off all my juicy secrets here in front of the kids—“

However, he gets interrupted with the sound of something snapping—surprisingly enough, this time not coming from Silgryn himself breaking more of the furniture. “Uh, Silgryn? Maybe you should take a look at this?” Illidan prompts everyone’s attention as he points at the bigger bookcase on the hall, placed close to one corner, “This is the only location in the room resonating with magic, if faintly,”

The group gathers around the tallest of them all, Silgryn’s violet brows knitting as if pondering hard about what they are staring at. “Ah, yes, the old vault! Why haven’t I thought about it before?” The elder Stareye snaps out a moment later, rushing between Illidan and Lothrius after the former unveils a rune with a wave of his glowing hand.

Without further ado, Silgryn unlocks the rune by placing his palm on the surface, leaving Mylenne to stagger back in sudden surprise, bumping with Jarod as the books on the bookcase start moving aside, revealing a dark wooden door behind.

“Wh- _whaaaat_?” Mylenne gapes rather ridiculously, sharing an incredulous look with Jarod who seems just as astounded as she is—both slack-mouthed, blinking repeatedly as if not believing the sight. “How does this—why didn’t I know about this before?”

“Because this is Drie’s vault,” Silgryn deadpans, not looking back as he brings a small knife from one of his many hidden pockets in his clothing, quickly working on breaking the lock. “You should stay here, though, Mylie. Can’t really say what’s lurking over there, but surely it’s not anything nice,” Easily enough for a _dorei_ like him, he breaks the door open before throwing a brief yet grave glare at Mylenne, intent on cutting off any possible protest. “Sulky, Song Boy! What about lending your favorite Stareye a hand?”

Lothrius doesn’t seem to mind staying around, shrugging in some sense of resignation, looking rather more interested in the odd rune his friend revealed rather than anything else. Appearing to be the most curious of the group, Illidan throws Mylenne a reassuring wink before leading the way inside, summoning a small flicker of purplish flames with a click of his fingers to light up a dark corridor further ahead—definitely ignoring Jarod’s groans of protest as much as Silgryn does.

However, as some considerable time goes by without signs of the three of them, Mylenne begins itching with impatience, if she hadn’t started so while pacing frantically back and forth in front of the bookshelf; her concerned frown becoming nastier and lilac face scrunching harder with every attempt from Lothrius to ease her up. She can’t really say if it’s her sheer curiosity or the worry for the _dorei_ taking so long, although eventually Mylenne’s patience wears thin, prompting Lothrius to keep guard and storming inside the unfamiliar vault—any objection from him unheard as she quickly disappears from his sights.

Despite being shrouded in darkness, Mylenne finds a way through thanks to Silgryn’s chattering coming from somewhere below. “ _Ack!_ Anti-magic mechanisms? What in Elune’s motherly tits was my sister thinking? I can’t tell if she did this to prevent her husband or _me_ from taking this…” Sticking to the walls near blindly, she stumbles upon a set of old stairs leading down and to where the three _dorei_ are located, Silgryn hissing a moment later, “ _Arane!_ Fucking shit—! It’s not giving away. Can you give it a try, boy?”

Mylenne figures out that even when she has no clue where the hallway is leading her, she seems to be close, if hearing Illidan’s small humming is anything to go by. “Scrying stones?” There’s an evident tint of amazement and exhilaration in her friend’s voice—something Mylenne can’t really decide if it’s good or bad. “This is… incredible! You think we can—”

A small line of dim light shows at the end of the dark corridor, revealing a reinforced door barely open, appearing to be the only way to where the three men are. A concerned frown narrows Mylenne’s face as—quite out of the blue—there’s a noise of something snapping but after that, a sudden and near disturbing silence. An electric tingle runs through her fingers as her gloved hand comes in contact with the door, apprehension coursing through her.

_Mylenne, my beautiful daughter… I knew you would find me…_

A very familiar voice invades Mylenne’s mind, making her breath hitch, freezing in place all in a sudden. As the door swings open, showing the rest of the group inside, she finds herself unable to move; her silver gaze locking on the sight of Silgryn below, thoroughly examining a small golden object in his hands. “Such a small little thing, yet holding so much…“ Her uncle sounds incredibly far away, barely heard through her fast heartbeat and that voice whispering, assaulting her thoughts.

_Once again, my brother meddles with forces he cannot understand. His curiosity will be the end of him. You must not allow this,_ dalah’dorei _… I must not allow this…_

Mylenne can’t possibly figure out what’s going on, her mother’s voice clouding all of her senses, her body moving on its own accord down the stairs—guided by a strange force she can’t struggle against, limbs slightly trembling as a cold chill overcomes her.

_My child, he will ruin everything. You must not let him retrieve what is ours… what is_ mine _!_

She doesn’t have a chance to decide otherwise as an awful snarl shows on her lilac face, pinning Silgryn with a fiery gaze as he finally takes notice of her arrival, turning around with a deep frown. “Wha—? Mylenne! Get the fuck out of here! What did I just—“ A sharp hiss interrupts his rant, returning to glance at the small shard in his palm, a faint glow growing on it and before his eyes.

Mylenne’s figure flares in bright purplish, making her feel empowered, more _alive_ than ever before; the feeling growing like spider webs entangling over her skin, becoming stronger with every step closer to the golden shard in Silgryn’s hands. A voice that is hers—while at the same time it’s not—reverberates through the walls as she speaks. “ _I knew you would find a way to keep meddling with the hand of fate… dear brother,”_ Reaching the end of the stairs, her glowing eyes are only for him, glaring menacingly, _“But this ends tonight,_ ”

Silgryn’s breath hitches sharply, eyes blowing wide as if not believing what he’s seeing. “Aedriel? How—?” He can only mutter, a shimmer of understanding flashing through his gaze a moment later, taking a precautious step back. “Shit… _Illidan!_ ”

A tall, broad Sorcerer gets in her way, familiar purple robes waving as he prepares a spell to cast in her general direction. However, while he looks skillful, he’s far from fast enough for her to prevent it—not even needing to whisper a counterspell, merely flicking her wrist at him, brushing him off as if a fly would be, not looking away from her brother as the Sorcerer clashes against the opposite wall of the room.

“ _The shard is mine, Silgryn, and I will have it, in this Embrace or the next.”_ She assures, making him back off to one corner, allowing him the chance to hand over the shard as she outstretches an open palm in his direction. _“Such is the price they demand me to pay,”_

Ever the rebel and stubborn, Silgryn doesn’t look up to collaborate in the slightest, “Your time has ended centuries ago, Aedriel. My sister is no more and will _not_ be anymore,” He declares, fiery and obstinate, saving the shard in one of his many pockets, chin held straight, “I have pledged my life to make sure of that and will keep doing it until my last night,”

A faint sense of pity courses through her, but she’s grown tired of his games and interferences for far too long—something she’s decided to not keep allowing to happen, not anymore. “ _You cannot stop me from becoming whole once more. No one can._ ” The room trembles with her booming voice and the might of her magic, just as her brother starts to as she effortlessly lifts him in the air with another unspoken spell, _“It is written in the stars, it is my destiny,”_

She never wanted to end up choking her own brother or ever using her unmatched powers against him—and yet, as a silver pleading gaze sets upon her, she knows Silgryn’s aware he could never stop this from happening. “Your d-daughter’s already… paying for y-your destiny…” He croaks with the last of his breath, blood falling from his nose and gaping like a fish out of the water.

However, she can’t feel remorse or guilt; not after the lengths she went through, not after all the sacrifices she made, not after all she did to claim what’s been intended for her since her birth. All her small worries are set aside as the golden shard falls from Silgryn’s pocket, floating in the direction of its rightful owner—her features softening as she finally grasps the small object.

Her brother falls to the floor like a rock, wheezing and panting hard, but she only has eyes for the golden shard resting in her palm; its beauty and power… _enrapturing_ , even more charming than Desdel’s bright gaze on her. “ _After so many centuries, and it still calls to me…_ ” She smiles in sheer relief, her chest heaving with the mere thought of so many promises about to become true and real. Without hesitation and with a renowned energy, she begins casting one of her signature spells.

Only for her teleportation spell and growing joy to be cut off all in a sudden, after the gloved hand of a kaldorei snatches the shard off her hands. Her breath hitches, a furious gaze traveling to the face of a third man in the room—a familiar silver mane shimmering with the reflection of the dim light upon it, memories of another lifetime assaulting her like a slap in the face. Could it be him?

For that matter, she doesn’t have time to wonder about it, the boy’s face scrunching briefly in a sort of apology. “I’m sorry, Myl…” It’s all that little Jarod says before a fist connects with her nose, sending her stumbling back with a grunt.

When another fist lands on her cheek, Mylenne is knocked out; another two strong arms catching her and preventing her from meeting the floor, two bright golden eyes staring shockingly at her before everything goes black.

* * *

“Whatever that shard stores, it’s making her very unstable.” The world seems to be spinning wildly, white dots dancing before her, the light too bright for her to keep her eyes open. “It’s trying to control her or something like that, I can barely contain it!” A baritone voice cries close to her, sounding more desperate than her liking.

“Oculeth, you need to bring her to Oculeth. He’ll know what to do,” Someone else pants heavily from afar.  Mylenne wants to say something, but the mere act of breathing becomes to be a huge effort from her part, feeling like feverish hot.

A frail groan mixed with a wheeze is all that escapes her lips as her cheek bangs against a warm chest, apparently being carried Goddess knows where. The many voices speaking at the same time makes her dizzier, her stomach churning all in a sudden. It gets somewhat better as the cold chill from the outskirts brushes her then flushing face, yet it’s not enough to bring her some strength to regain her senses.

A concerned hum from what could only be her frostsaber prompts Mylenne to summon whatever remains of her energies, faintly moaning in a sort of protest at the sharp motions coming from whoever’s carrying her. Mumbling something unintelligible—even for her—she gets shushed right away, “Ssh, it’s fine, Mylie. I got you, I got you…”

Illidan’s deeply concerned face comes into view through crinkled slits, his soothing voice and careful fingertips brushing the hair off her face eliciting her to relax on his arms; feeling him making his best with seating atop Rak’shareh not so abruptly, still having a secure grip on her. “Hold on there, okay? I got you, no matter what,”

She can’t say if he’s trying to ease down her nerves or his own, but eventually she can’t think straight as her head lolls to the side to rest on Illidan’s chest, the world fading to black once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oh. My. Goddess, it's been so longggggggg_!! I seriously want to hide in a corner for taking so much with updating, and don't really have words to say how much I'm sorry for this. But it's here! Like, really here! 
> 
> And the plot has really moved forward with this one - even when I don't really feel it like the best update ever _(and again, I'm so sorry about this, but it's what I have u_u)_. We now have our babe Thalyssra and the whole gang causing mayhem within one chapter - even a very small part I've been nearly _dying_ to reveal!  
>  Soooo, I think now it's time to reveal one of the sorts of undisclosed tags for this part of the series (yup yup, it's always been Jarod/Shalasyr :D) and more are to come but shush, still trying to keep it a surprise :D 
> 
> As always, thanks so much to those ones for still keeping up with me and my dorks, like [ Callane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/callane/) and many many others who didn't give up and supported me in this very hard time I'm currently having. Starsurge is one of my most precious babies, and the fact of somewhere being out there waiting so patiently for me to come up with an update fills me with such joy I can't even explain with words. You **really mean the world to me** and I won't ever hesitate to remind you all of that. 
> 
> Last but not least: Within these months of absence, I could figure out lots of issues I was having to keep up with the plotlines, but Lid and Mylie helped me a lot with sorting them out, sooooooo it looks like updates are coming faster now! YAY!  
> Then again, don't hesitate to reach out, ask away, or even say hi - Goddess knows how good is that for my soul, and I swear I don't bite :D


	20. Rampaging Torrent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I guess we all can say Aedriel was already sick quite long ago, before all this,” Jarod looks like wanting to remark, a deep breath following, silver eyes glancing gloomily across the window, “But the first sign of her arcane madness showed fifteen hundred years ago as she did the unthinkable, and murdered her two closest friends in cold blood, leaving anything but lifeless husks in their stead,” 
> 
> No matter where Illidan really stands with Mylenne’s friend, his heart can’t help but skip a beat when the boy’s silver gaze locks with his golden one—for the tiniest of moments, not sure if he still wants to know furthermore. “Those were Illydreas and Yara Shadowsong… mine and Maiev’s parents,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Mostly the same as the previous chapter, adding up psychological drama, mild haunting elements, hallucinations, and psychosis.**

** Darnassian: **

**Quel / Quel’dorei:** Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.

 **Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

 **Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating. Slang: **Sart(e)**.

 **Ishnu-alah:** “Good fortune to you.”

* * *

** Stormrage **

He merely affords himself some time to pat Rak’shareh between her ears as an act of appreciation before dropping unceremoniously from her saddle and before The Thirsty Magister’s doors with Mylenne in his arms. It gets to be a very difficult task, nearly impossible with the way she thrashes and squirms, but Illidan manages to place her feverish self atop her unmade bed, upstairs in her—more like permanent—rented room.

Vanthir and Oculeth are instantly assisting him from the very first moment he stormed inside the bar, the former pulling out damp rags and some herbs looking like belonging to a neat first aid kit. “I need you to keep her as still as you can,” Vanthir doesn’t look at Illidan while working on cleaning her flushed face, apparently trusting him to oblige right away, four hands doing their best to hold her in place.

His heart races in sheer apprehension with the way Mylenne’s silver eyes roll backwards from time to time, wanting to curl in on herself or bat their hands away in the next moment, the room filling with her incomprehensible mumbling. “This looks very grim… what happened, lad?” Oculeth tries to assist with holding her by the ankles, a mix of whines and sharp breaths falling from her then very pale lips.

“We’ve been helping Silgryn to retrieve one of her sister’s possessions. A shard, more precisely,” Illidan manages to untie the knot holding her cloak in place with one hand, shooing her gently when she tries to squirm away from his hold, “When Mylenne came close to that thing, she… I don’t know how to say it, but it _wasn’t her_ anymore. Didn’t even sound like her,” He shoots a serious look at their bald companion, cobalt brows knitting when Oculeth doesn’t appear worried or concerned in the slightest.

A set of _‘No’_ and _‘Stop’_ and _‘Please’_ is all they can figure out from Mylenne’s constant mumbling, returning to her squirming when Vanthir manages to run a cold damp rag over her forehead. “Ah, so you have already found Aedriel’s shard? That is indeed remarkable!” Oculeth looks just as excited as if he just had been told they discovered a new arcane spell, “I’d very much like to see it again, think about everything we can extract from it!” His odd enthusiasm is muffled by Mylenne’s hissing as Vanthir holds an open flask filled with herbs close to her nose, trying to make her smell it. “Does Silgryn still have it?”

Illidan’s not sure how he manages to keep himself from snapping back at Oculeth, annoyance still showing on his face, however. “Yes, but can we _please_ focus on stabilizing her?” He drops a hard glare he was about to throw at the bald man when Mylenne grasps one of his hands all in a sudden, prompting his attention back on her, frowning harder in concern as her inner magical aura flares to life, if for a fleeting moment. “Silgryn said you can do something with whatever’s happening with her magic,”

Thankfully, Oculeth snaps out of his reverie quick enough. “Ah, yes, yes, you’re right,” Kneeling next to his friend, Oculeth’s palms begin glowing slightly in bright purple shades, running them across Mylenne’s chest yet not touching her, merely scanning. “It’s nothing to be worried about, Mylie’s body is just repelling the remnants of her mother’s grasp on her,” He says more nonchalantly for Illidan’s liking, golden eyes blowing wide with how deeply concerning that actually sounds. Oculeth just clicks his tongue in dismissal, “Think of it as a virus! I’ll do my best with purging whatever’s left of Aedriel’s influence. You just hold her still,”

Illidan can’t help with gritting his teeth, lips pursing tight when Mylenne clutches his wrist harder. However, he feels more uncomfortable with the strongly alluring scent of her magic as it flares to life once more, rather than the manageable pain that comes with Mylenne’s sharp nails digging into his skin. It’s incredibly troubling as much as something he thought he’d been handling decently—a strong _thirst_ taking hold of his throat all in a sudden—but as it comes back again to get a grip of his rational senses, he can’t assure that feeling, that… _need_ will ever get tolerable somehow.

 _This is most definitely_ not _the time to focus of that, Stormrage. Get a grip on yourself, now._

Returning his thoughts to more pressing matters, he recalls both Silgryn and Oculeth have already spoken of Mylenne’s mother as an _existent_ presence—if anything, not as a figure from the past. “I don’t understand a single bit of this,” Illidan growls, nose scrunching in both irritation and his running contemplations, but more rather displeased with being left out of the picture; something his female friend and her uncle tend to do more often than not, a quite offensive manner he most dislikes when it comes from them. “Isn’t Conjurer Stareye supposed to be _dead_?”

His two current companions don’t get to reply before the elder _dorei_ in Mylenne’s very odd family storms inside, his dark violet mane quite a mess yet not pegging down his usual haughty persona by an inch, Shadowsong right on toe. “And do you honestly think the very first Arcanist Suramar ever had is that easy to be brought down?” Silgryn scoffs, his throat still covered with dark bruises, barely showing although easy to catch Illidan’s eye. “I thought you had a brain behind those pretty eyes of yours, lad. Do you ever use it?”

Vanthir sends a hard glare at Silgryn while he stops at the feet of his niece’s bed. “Don’t be that rude with the boy, Sil. He just asked a question,” Comes his scolding, not looking intimidated by the considerably worrisome annoyance the elder Stareye has plastered all over his face. Even Shadowsong takes the wise approach to give Silgryn some space—appearing quite gloomy as he leans his side against the window, yet keeping silent as he has been for the entire evening.

Luckily for all of them and before Silgryn can get on a dense rant, Oculeth’s glowing palms begin fading, his sort of confinement spell finishing. “There it is, her aura is contained as usual,” It takes a heavy sigh from Mylenne for her feverish mumblings to ease down considerably, falling onto what it seems a much-needed slumber, “Should be taking a night or two for that fever to pass, though,” Oculeth adds with a flick of an index finger, looking satisfied with his work before turning to face Silgryn, “I’m taking you brought my shard, Sil? I can begin examinations at once, just give the word,”

For that matter, Silgryn looks way too irritated by the mere mention of that thing. “It’s downstairs. Go, have at it, whatever,” He says through clenched teeth, not bothering to dart his eyes away from his niece as he takes Oculeth’s place at the side of her bed, “And shield that fucking thing, pretty please,” He sends a bark at their bald companion before he has the chance to saunter outside the nearly full room, the motion of tucking her niece under some blankets not appearing to help in keeping some composure. “Bah! You can drop that look on me, Illidan. I know you’re _dying_ to interrogate me,”

Figuring out he’d probably been staring him down for too much, Illidan manages to keep himself from sending a nasty snarl his way. “You’re aware these magical objects are supposed to be scanned and more likely stored within academies such as Nar’thalas, Mennar, or the Moon Guard Stronghold, right?” Illidan can’t help with remarking the obvious, briefly wondering how long the Stareyes have had such a powerful item on their grasp. “And this shard actually belongs to _Oculeth_?”

“Oculeth built it for Silgryn’s sister, when she became an Advisor on Elisande’s Court,” Vanthir clicks his tongue, running a dry rag for the last time over Mylenne’s forehead, slightly shimmering with a mix of sweat and Vanthir’s rejuvenating waters he’d been washing her with—probably coming from a nearby Moonwell. “Just as how you see him, humble and funny and solitaire, Oculeth actually had been the first apprentice under Arcanist Lylandre’s wing, many centuries ago,” A soft smile shows on the bartender’s face, always patient and willing enough to enlighten everyone who wants to listen, “That’s how you two met, isn’t it, Sil?”

“Ah, that bitch of Lylandre, my first marriage arrangement. Such an _adorable_ Lady…” Silgryn’s voice is laced with sheer sarcasm, putting up a disgusted face as if to prove his point, if only briefly, “Thankfully, yes, I did meet Oculeth through her. Drie requested him to build that shard when she was still lucid enough to think of a failsafe. I’m glad it still works, in some way,”

His comment prompts Illidan to wince a little, “What—? Hold on a second,” Incited by his mere instincts, his fingers lace with Mylenne’s—her hand still holding his, even in her slumber—bringing her hand close to his chest and away from Silgryn in a protective manner, “Are you trying to say the very Aedriel Stareye is… is… _inside_ that shard!?” He tries to keep his voice low, yet he doesn’t make a good job of it, shooting an incredulous look at the _dorei_ on the opposite side of the bed.

Silgryn returns the same look back at him, locking gazes for a good minute, the room shrouding in silence… only to be cut off by a very abrupt fit of laughter. “Ha! _Of course not!_ ” He guffaws, nearly in an exaggerated manner, Illidan’s cobalt brows quirking up in suspicion, “… But a good part is, yeah.” Silgryn then deadpans out of the blue, his cackles stopping all in a sudden, “A piece of her soul, most precisely,”

An evident shudder runs through Shadowsong while he takes Vanthir’s place at the head of the bed, the latter quite useless already to help with anything else, ready to take his leave. “And each time you said it, it sounds exactly as creepy as the first,” Mylenne’s friend declares, although Illidan notices the inquisitive look he throws at his and Mylenne’s linked hands, a silver eyebrow twitching ever so briefly.

However, Illidan has definitely more important matters to ponder about rather than having to care about whatever Shadowsong may be thinking—and it’s not like he’d _ever_ cared, anyways, very much less so with the man’s long periods of absence while tending to his work. “But answering your first question: No, Drie’s not alive,” Silgryn recalls his full attention way too easily, “Although she isn’t technically dead, either. Powerful women like her are very hard to kill, but _sarte_ like her are also a pain in the ass to keep jailed or contained as well,” He has the decency of mentioning, not really looking like wanting to explain further.

Shadowsong shakes his head in noticeable disagreement, “You’re aware you’re talking about your _sister_ , right? Also Myl’s mother, here,” He remarks the obvious, nodding at the only female in the room.

His comment brings Silgryn to send a cold glare his way, “You, of all _dorei_ , know when she stopped being so, Jarod,” Illidan is already aware Silgryn tends to get pretty much serious and somber when he starts calling people by their real names instead of the mocking ones he makes for them, “Don’t try to lecture me, I have every right to call Aedriel however the fuck I want,” He snarls, getting in a defensive posture as he crosses his arms over his chest, chin held straight.

Illidan sighs in sheer frustration, reaching the end of his patience and utterly tired of everyone not speaking straight, “Care to stop leaving me out?” He snaps, sending a heated glare at both of them. “Start talking, or _else…”_ A sharp tilt of his head signals them their way to the door, the meaning more than clear as he leans further onto his side of Mylenne’s bed.

Shadowsong only stares back at him, confusion narrowing his face. “You didn’t know? I thought Silgryn or Myl—” A sharp and single shake of Silgryn’s head is what he gets as a reply, a gleam of understanding dawning on the former’s gaze afterwards. A moment of silence goes by with the two men before Illidan sharing a serious look, yet luckily he doesn’t need to bark anything back at them as Shadowsong straightens and rises from his spot on the head of the bed.

As he’s apparently reluctant to begin speaking, Illidan’s lips purse tight so to keep himself from making any noise, a certain sense of apprehension pooling around his gut as Shadowsong paces from the bed to the window and back. “I guess we all can say Aedriel was already sick quite long ago, before all this,” He looks like wanting to remark, a deep breath following, silver eyes glancing gloomily across the window, “But the first sign of her arcane madness showed fifteen hundred years ago as she did the unthinkable, and murdered her two closest friends in cold blood, leaving anything but lifeless husks in their stead,”

No matter where Illidan really stands with Mylenne’s friend, his heart can’t help but skip a beat when the boy’s silver gaze locks with his golden one—for the tiniest of moments, not sure if he still wants to know furthermore. “Those were Illydreas and Yara Shadowsong… mine and Maiev’s parents,”

Sheer silence washes over the three of them like a heavy cloak, Illidan’s breath hitching at the revelation, lots of pieces of the intricate puzzle that regards House Stareye in its entirety starting to fit inside his mind. As his eyes drift to the sleeping form of Mylenne beside him, Illidan realizes how clear everything is right away; from Mylenne and the Shadowsong siblings’ hatred and prejudices towards Sorcerers to their reluctance and wariness to all things arcane.

His chest feels heavy, for he doesn’t know how to handle with that new information. Not right then, very much less so when—and being honest with himself, at the very least—a very symbol of his order such as the former Conjurer Aedriel Stareye had been quite a role model to Illidan for centuries.

Powerful, beautiful, grandiose, influential, with a name that inspired both admiration and respect. Everything a magic born such as Illidan and half the Empire has ever aspired to become, that woman had it all… and for what?

“I’d been on my travels at that time, searching for a cure, anything that could stop the whispers nagging at Aedriel’s mind,” Silgryn brings him out of his reverie as he speaks—somber, apparently overcome with a certain melancholy, and very unlike the _dorei_ he knows as Mylenne’s uncle, “I found out what she did at the same time her husband did, though. That’s when I came back to Suramar as fast as I could. For that matter, I already knew how late I was to try keeping her in check either way…”

“You’re talking about the time when she attempted to murder Desdel and Mylenne as well, isn’t it?” Illidan can’t help but ask, recalling what he’d read about the former Conjurer some years back at Izal-Shurah.

Silgryn snorts in dismissal, “Pfft, you shouldn’t believe everything that’s written about her. That’s far from what happened that evening,” There’s a slightly offended tone in the elder Stareye’s voice, yet he doesn’t look like bringing up his personal opinions at the current moment. “In fact, that evening was when Desdel did the only good deed in his life, and tried to bring Aedriel down for all our sakes,”

His statement prompts Illidan’s shoulders down as well as his long ears, a sense of confusion mixed up with some surprise plastered all over his face. “But he didn’t… What happened, then?”

“Myl happened,” Shadowsong— _no, Jarod_ —continues, casting a sad glance at the bed where she lies, “The truth is, Lord Desdel wasn’t the only one Aedriel had under her charms. All of us were under her spell by then,” Illidan can’t say for sure if the man thoroughly understands the real meanings of what a charm actually is or if he’s just phrasing it vaguely, yet he doesn’t have the chance of making a remark as Jarod crouches on the opposite side of Mylenne’s bed, silver eyes fixing on him. “What you saw today at the vault, Illidan… it’s not the first time Aedriel _possessed_ her own child,”

Illidan can’t help with casting an incredulous look at the young _dorei_ before him. _A… controlling spell? Does that even exist? There’s close to nothing regarding such a complex incantation as that from the Conjurer’s scrolls, or anyone, for that matter. Perhaps the boy is still talking about a certain charming spell? How could it be possible, then?_

Nearly as if he’d just read his mind, Silgryn continues. “It’s not as unbelievable as it sounds. Aedriel and Mylie always had a powerful bond, as powerful as one between a mother and a daughter could be,” He elaborates, apparently with his turn for doing a nervous pace across the room, “It didn’t take long for Drie’s tainted mind to figure out how to take the best from that,”

“When Desdel found out he’d been charmed for _centuries_ , and then the truth about Mylie’s lack of magic of her own, he retaliated against his wife… and quite rightfully so.” Silgryn shrugs slightly in a sense of admission, a hard cinch of his violet brows following. “But before he even had the chance of giving his final blow, Aedriel forced Mylie to attack her father, buying herself a chance to escape from her husband’s wrath. I barely had some time to drop little Jarod and Maiev with good old Vanthir downstairs before going on a final hunt for my sister. I’ve been lucky, though; Desdel managed to injure her enough to slow her down, so my chase was pretty short,”

Illidan had already heard many comments regarding Mylenne’s apparent lack of magic—blatant lies or evident ignorance, if someone asked him—although even when Silgryn’s near unnoticeable remark prompts his curiosity, he keeps himself from going through that line of conversation for the current moment. “Where did you find her? How did you bring her down?” Illidan wonders instead, as calm and composed as he can allow himself to be, quite unlike the other men in the room still pacing around.

“By the shores of Sashj’tar, on her way to Vashj’ir,” Silgryn replies somberly, glancing across the small window yet looking lost in his memories, if his unmovable gaze means anything to go by, “I used one of her own spells against her, one she specifically taught me should the inevitable came to happen. It… severed her soul from her body, leaving nothing of the sister she once was to me, merely a _husk_ in her stead,” His dull silver eyes find Illidan’s, a miserable gleam showing on them—morose and gloomy, making Illidan purse his lips in an act of reflex. “I… won’t bore you with more details, lad. There’s nothing else you need to know, for that matter,”

 _Not like you_ needed _to know all this in the first place, Stormrage_ , the voice of his conscience makes their snarky remark, knowing how much—or even better than himself—all this new information will take a toll on him sooner rather than later. Even with, then, finally understanding why the Shadowsongs and the Stareyes always acted so skeptical towards his inherited abilities and natural affinity for the arcane, and as much as he appreciates not being left out of the picture for once, Illidan can’t help but admit that sometimes some things are better left unsaid.

_Better left buried and forgotten… just like all the wrongs and mistakes you once made._

Silgryn appears quite overwhelmed to continue their conversation, leaning tiredly against the window frame and a heavy sigh leaving his lilac lips. However, Illidan only has eyes for the _dorei_ lying on the only bed in the bedroom—so very still and in a peaceful slumber, far away from the all the tragedies that had struck and still keep leaving scars and echoes upon the ones around her, even many centuries later.

While he brushes a strand of bright violet hair away from her pale face, Illidan finds himself not daring to make a single noise, losing into his thoughts as well as the rest of the men around. A never-ending stream of ponderings crosses his troubled mind, questions upon questions, yet he’s somehow hesitant to know the answers.

And still, what does Mylenne really see when she looks at him? Does she see the proud, honored man Illidan near desperately wants to become? Does she see his tiresome efforts made night after night to carve a real name for himself? Or does she merely see an echo of her long-gone mother, a glimpse of what he could end up becoming if left unchecked and free to develop the might of his own arcane talent?

A big part of him—the one that has grown fond and deeply attached to her after all these years—wants to believe Mylenne wouldn’t ever hold him accountable or even compare him to her mother’s past deeds. She has already supported him in front of her loved ones, and more than once even stood against her own principles; apparently seeing something inherently good within him, _believing_ in him when no one, not even himself, did so.

_“That's… A lot of beliefs for someone who's losing their faith,”_

_“I may be, yeah, you’re right. But, if anything, I have faith in_ you _.”_

On the other hand and in an attempt to look at the big picture, Illidan finds himself partially struggling with coming to terms with the knowledge of Silgryn _murdering_ his own sister. Sure thing, he wants to believe he’s not really a stranger to the act of making a sacrifice for the greater good—or to spare a life to save dozens—although it’s not that easy to just imagine the incredibly heavy weight the elder Stareye had been willingly wearing upon his shoulders for so long.

_Do you honestly believe that, Stormrage? Or are you just choosing to turn a blind eye to Silgryn’s pretty much evident selfishness?_

In all honesty, he does, and actually can’t bring himself to feel disgusted with Silgryn; for sometimes, nobody can really avoid where the hand of fate may bring someone. And for that matter, how he can possibly blame him for what he’s done if, at the end of the night, a great part of his actions had so obviously been to keep Mylenne away from the twisted schemes of _both_ her parents? How can he blame Silgryn if without him, perhaps he wouldn’t have met Mylenne at all?

_Have you just forgotten how Silgryn dragged you all to the wolf’s den to save his lover’s ass from getting beaten to death? That never was about Mylie, don’t you lie to yourself…_

A hard frown narrows Illidan’s face, slowly yet steadily starting to feel inclined to agree with the rational voice of his conscience. However, his current line of thought is brushed away all in a sudden as the bedroom door opens once again, two concerned males striding in and joining on Mylenne’s bed without bothering to greet the group inside.

Hargo’then and Arluin. The Stareye’s lovers.

 _Do you see it now, Stormrage? Do you see now how you so pointlessly try to find some excuse to their actions when, at the very end, everyone’s entitled to their_ choices _?_

Illidan has to make an enormous effort to keep his face straight as Hargo’then glances at him from the opposite side of the bed, the Officer’s young face a perfect picture of stoicism—so collected, so composed, so at ease and so _insufferably annoying_. Even when he can’t forget the fact that Hargo hasn’t been at the Manor and, therefore, can’t possibly know what really happened, his mere presence is all it takes for Illidan to begin fuming.

_Don’t struggle against your real feelings. Stop taking everybody’s shit and start realizing what’s in front of your very eyes, once and for all._

It’s as Hargo tenderly grabs Mylenne’s free hand in his when Illidan takes it as his cue to take his leave, standing rather abruptly and placing as much distance from the man as he can before coming to regret it. He feels the dark voice within him beginning to take a firm hold of his conscience; uncontrollable, overwhelming, clouding his mind and rational thoughts.

 _She chose that_ sart _instead of you, just face it! She only relies on you when he’s not around. And you will never be fine until you realize you’re merely her last resort, a second option… a nobody._

He’s not sure how he manages to do it while being literally _assaulted_ with the darkest of thoughts, yet before seeing himself out, Illidan summons a dusk lily with a flick of his fingers; the glowing flower floating softly to rest on the small bedside table, close to Mylenne’s sleeping form.

While he’s positive everybody will consider that a mere kind gesture from his part, it’s as Illidan nearly slams the door close and strides out of the bar when he hopes Mylenne will take it for what it really is.

A reminder.

* * *

**Six weeks later**

_… He runs after her for what it feels like hours, crying Mylenne’s name from the bottom of his lungs—his voice and thoughts, the only thing from him he can have some control of—not finding the will to stop doing so, even when not a single sound comes from his lips in his attempts._

_Not a breath, not a pant, not even his steps are heard, and the sheer silence only works for his unease to run deeper through him._

What’s the point of this if there’s nothing I can do against it? What’s the meaning? Is this only meant to torture me?

_Many miles after, the girl stops running, past the forest and before the sea shores, giving him some sense of relief as he’s finally able to approach her. A spectral hand travels to one of her bare shoulders, hesitating at first, considering his options._

_Is it wise to touch her? Nothing good ever comes to happen when he does so…_

_Regardless of his ponderings, his hand stops midway after a swift gust of wind rushes through them both, her slender form shifting, changing all in a sudden and before his eyes. As like the most delicate opening of a flower, wind, mane, and clothes wave past and aside, revealing an adult woman within the next blink of his eyes. He dares coming closer, looking to meet her face, but he’s left half-astonished and half-confused after glancing at one single detail not according to the woman he knows as Mylenne._

_Her eyes are adorned with her ever so elegant violet markings, still big and bright as the very Moon… gleaming in delicate shades of_ gold _._

 _He steps closer and to her personal space, opting to brush aside the knowledge of Mylenne staring at the sea and through his translucent form, coming with a crushing need to touch her, cradle her beautiful face, just stroke her skin. Her panting breath fans between his collarbones and for a very long moment, there’s nothing he’d want more than for her to just_ see him _._

_It’s nearly overwhelming to see her like that; her glossy golden eyes so fitting, her markings bright and beautiful as they’re caressed by the moonlight, her violet mane waving high, with such grace, so grandiose._

_Mylenne looks_ so real _and his heart_ aches _for her._

Why can’t you see me?

 _Once more, the only thing he feels is a gust of wind rushing as the woman walks through his form, his hands grasping only air as her gaze keeps transfixed at the sea before them. Her voice is soft as always yet distant and muffled, heard as if she’s talking from many miles away. “_ Min’da _, please…” She only whispers, voice trembling._

_His breath hitches as he turns around, words and thoughts alike caught in his throat, unable to do anything but stare at what Mylenne’s facing._

_An ethereal figure stares back from the middle of the sea, ghostly and delicate feet nearly touching the water, mists of dark purple and azure shaping and giving them a form. Mylenne doesn’t seem to have eyes for anyone else but them as she approaches, her sobbing more loudly, her face narrowed by despair as she keeps chanting the same plea over and over. “_ Min’da _, don’t go!_ Min’da _, please…”_

_He walks beside her and closer to the shore, searching for a face among the twisted shadows surrounding the figure, floating softly above the water and so very still—impassive, emotionless, their form haloed by the huge Moon dangling over the horizon. Mylenne’s cries don’t seem to have an effect on them, two azure orbs that could pass for eyes idly looking around at everything and nothing in particular._

_… Until that azure gaze lays directly_ on him _._

_He flinches back in an act of reflex, a cold shiver running down his spine as the figure’s eyes gleam heatedly at him, mists and shadows shifting and contorting until the enraged face of Aedriel Stareye take form. She never speaks a word—doesn’t seem willing to and doesn’t seem to have a voice at all—but as her fangs are shown, a deep growl resonates around them, the surroundings booming and shaking violently, winds changing their course._

_Could that be for Mylenne’s despairing state or for his presence in this realm, he can’t really guess. Still, and despite all his doubts, he’s completely sure the ghost of Conjurer Stareye it’s not pleased with the sight of him in the slightest._

_Yet, somehow, it's been the only one who could really figure his presence in there._

_And at the same time when Mylenne falls to her knees, arms outstretching to the ghostly form before her, realization falls on him as heavy as a rock._ She _is the only one around with a voice of her own, with a body, with a face that looks as real as in the mortal plane—with bright golden eyes just as fitting, perhaps even more than the woman he knows and cares deeply for._

This isn’t my dream, it’s hers. I’m just an observer.

_He can’t help but drop himself down next to Mylenne, his heart clenching and aching so very bad with the miserable sight of her, hurting and longing to make his presence known in some way. He wishes so much to make her know he’s there, that she doesn’t have to walk alone in that dreadful realm; needs so much to comfort her, to hold her in his arms until she awakes once more._

_“_ Min’da _, don’t go, I beg you!” Mylenne keeps crying but the figure doesn’t seem to_ care _, an incensed roar coming from the forest, from the sea, from everywhere and nowhere in particular. If anything, the figure’s face contorts deeper, their azure gaze boring and utterly engrossed on him, not acknowledging nor sparing a glance to the woman next to him—the only real and tangible one._

_When their ghostly feet come in contact with the sea, the once calm waters start shaking violently, disturbing waves taking form—the twisted figure slowly seeming to melt and become one with the sea. Poisoning mists and shadows in shades of purple and azure spread among the expanse of the sea, tainting the waters as if being thick ink._

_He can’t help with holding Mylenne’s shoulders as she screams in sheer despair, deep down knowing there’s no use for it and she still can’t feel his presence. Yet is all he can do, whispering soothing nonsense close to her ear, holding her as best as he can as she buries her knees and hands in the sand, tears streaming down her cheeks like a flooding river._

_Tears thick and gleaming in shades of azure, mirroring the expanse of sea before them, staining her beautiful pale face and tainting all they touch. Polluting, contaminating, cursing…_

A wailing scream is what Illidan hears next, coming straight from the bottom of his throat as his eyes drift open; then, the unmistakable noise of glass exploding in a hundred pieces. Feeling his heart near hammering its way out of his chest, his first quick thought is to pat his surroundings, his senses still dull and blinking forcefully so to adjust his sights.

The sight of a shattered half-empty bottle of Cider seems mocking at first, what was left of its contents staining the wooden floor of his living room, sending him groaning in sheer displeasure—whether that be for the mess he just did or his recurrent torturing nightmares, Illidan can’t really tell. Out of attempting to brush away the twisted images still lingering on his mind, he busies himself with dressing up in a rush, opting to take care of the cleaning in another time.

The pale moonlight coming from across the window makes him figure the time of night, prompting Illidan to hurry as he downs a glass of water, forcibly not minding the headache growing on his temples while grabbing a traveling cloak, striding outside his house in a moment’s notice.

A mix of surprise and annoyance narrows his face as, on the other side of his front door, he finds Malfurion Stormrage facing straight back, his familiar silver gaze gleaming in sheer worry.

“Are you alright, brother?” He seems hesitant to speak at first, looking to be making a big effort of voicing his thoughts, approaching Illidan somehow sheepishly. “Something’s troubling you deeply and I… I’m just worried, that’s all,”

It takes a whole minute for Illidan to realize how and what his twin means—for Malfurion is precisely that, _his twin brother,_ and still sometimes it’s easy to forget their natural bond and how his brother would be feeling his own pain. Pretty much easily so as their late years have found them walking different paths in life, sharing next than nothing of their personal dealings with the other.

He runs a worried hand through his cobalt mane, trying to soothe his annoying headache in the process. “It’s… actually hard to explain, Mal,” He just settles to reply. In fact and no matter how much he tries to brush it away, Illidan just can’t forget his late grudges with Malfurion. Nonetheless, he also has to admit to himself how _tiresome_ having hard feelings with his relative and some more people around him is happening to become.

In truth, his nightmares—and consequently—the growing war within him have already started to take a toll on him, both physically and mentally. The fact of having his brother approaching him with the subject can only work as a dangerous reminder of how evident his weariness must be starting to show.

However, ever so patient and pretty much unlike his twin, Malfurion only shrugs nonchalantly. “Try me, then. I’m sure I’ll get it somehow,” Illidan’s golden gaze travels to his face, genuinely considering the idea. But what is there to say? Or even worse, how can he really voice what’s going on without sounding like an utter madman?

‘ _Ah, yeah, I’ve been having horrible nightmares the past few years, murdering people I care about over and over as well as feeling kind of haunted when I’m awake. Eh, nothing important, all in a night’s business, right? Oh, and now it seems I’m also having someone else’s nightmares…’_

A deep sigh follows, trying to sort out where to begin. “I’m, uh… running late to pick up Sylenna,” An excuse drops off his mouth before he can take it back, wincing a little with his poor choice of words.

Luckily—or rather more obliging with his usual demeanor—Malfurion doesn’t push the topic further, although he stops in his tracks. “Well, I admit I was also on my way to meet the Sisters. But they’re not at the Temple, actually,” Malfurion makes a quick remark after apparently figuring out where Illidan is attempting to head on, signaling the opposite road with a tilt of his green-haired head, “The Suramari Sentinels have returned from their training initiation. They’re gathering with the rest of the Sisters at the outskirts of Tel’anor and naming a new bunch of Priestesses as we speak,”

He doesn’t give it too much thought as his brother joins in on his travel, their walk together more silent than usual, but for some reason not as uncomfortable or upsetting as Illidan would have thought at first—merely bringing up some pointless topics like the current nice weather, both appearing to be deeply careful with their choice of words. For the matter, he doesn’t have to endure a conversation with his brother for much longer as the Sister’s gathering comes into view, a considerably big bunch of women hanging out and around.

Some families are also joining the crowd, surely to greet or congratulate the new proclaimed Priestesses, also making Illidan figure out he’d actually showed up late. Far up north, he finds Syrana chatting eagerly with Shalasyr, a grinning Nyellus looking evidently delighted with having his daughters around—and Illidan can absolutely tell about the Starweave patriarch’s bursting happiness, for he’s quite aware Syrana’s family doesn’t have the chance to get together that often.

“Oh, there she is!” From his periphery, he notices Malfurion’s face brightening with a wide smile clinging to his lips, striding ahead and—with some obliviousness from his part—not waiting for his brother to join him.

Illidan doesn’t have much time to figure out who are they meeting—even when deep down he already knows so—before and all in a sudden, a small hand pulls him down by the neck, wrapping him in a hug.

“I’m so glad you could come, Illy!” He winces internally with how the woman names him, although she doesn’t seem to notice his growing discomfort as she hugs him tighter. “For a moment I thought you wouldn’t make it,”

He pats Sylenna’s long silver mane a tad bit awkwardly. “You should thank my brother instead. I was actually on my way to the Temple,” He remarks a little more bitterly than intended, disentangling himself from Sylenna’s embrace as gently and elegantly as he can.

Illidan’s current lover doesn’t appear to mind his sour mood, yet even when it’s clear as the sky above how uncomfortable he’s starting to get with her attentions, Sylenna still pulls him down once again a moment later, kissing him fully and eagerly. Out of sheer modesty, he manages not to flinch back or growl in annoyance, but Illidan can’t keep his breath from hitching when something else captures his attention, through the corner of his half-lidded eyes. Sadly, Sylenna seems to be taking that as a cue to kiss him more deeply, a hum of approval escaping her as a dark-skinned arm travels half teasingly to encircle his waist, attempting to pull him closer.

He’s in a very bad position to deal with Sylenna’s usual insecurities and needs, but for some reason, he finally obliges and kisses her back—if very briefly—straightening and keeping her at arm’s length afterwards. A few meters ahead, his brother looks hesitant of stepping into what clearly looks like a heated discussion between Tyrande and Jarod Shadowsong’s sister, their voices joining onto the copious amount of idle chattering between groups of families and Sisters.

However, no matter how crowded Tel’anor outskirts are, Illidan can see Mylenne just as easily and just as clearly as the night sky above—the _very Moon_ appearing to be signaling him in her direction, bright moonlight falling upon her small figure as if the Goddess had just come down from the heavens to wrap her in Her arms.

How does she really do it—looking like an embodiment of pure _beauty_ , even in her worst of states? And most of all, how Mylenne always manages to draw him to her whenever she comes to be around?

As if his feet suddenly found a life of its own, Illidan finds himself slowly walking towards her, past Malfurion and Sylenna, even across Tyrande and Shadowsong’s sister still arguing heatedly; the sight of a miserable Mylenne nearly about to burst into tears, all that his eyes can see. It’s thanks to her downcast state that Illidan can figure out what just happened right away, opting not to ask about it as he kneels beside her, brushing a messy violet braid away from her shoulder, leaving it to fall down her back.

Her silver eyes are glossy, yet bright and big as two beautiful moons as they find his face, her lower lip trembling ever so slightly. Out of courtesy, Illidan searches his pockets, giving her a handkerchief. “If it helps, you never struck me as a Priestess either way. Remember when we first met? You seemed so… far away from your fellow Sisters,” _All alone and left to your own devices, hiding what you always had been from everyone else_ , is the rest of his sentence, although he keeps that to himself. “Years later, you still are, in some way. But Mylie, both of us know you never belonged to the Temple,” Instead he says softly, resting a hand on her bare knee.

Mylenne can’t hold his gaze for much longer as some tears fall down her cheeks after a blink, her long lashes getting wet. “I know,” She whispers back, not appearing to find her voice properly.

“You always hated being in that place, now you got rid of it. Why are you crying, then?” He genuinely wonders, tilting his head in curiosity. “Mylie, you have everything within reach to become anything you want, to walk any path you may fancy. You’re a beautiful woman, skilled and good in many arts, with a privileged name even. We both know if, should you want it, you can settle on Eldre’Thalas and leave every single shit happening in here behind.” A brief frown crosses Illidan’s face, hoping she wouldn’t really consider that particular idea.

“ _I know,_ ” She repeats, “And you’re right. I suppose sometimes I forget the small blessings I have,” A slight shrug follows, brushing the back of his hand in an unconscious manner, “I’m more aware than what I tend to show of how _privileged_ I am. I have a name, I’m healthy, wealthy, I even have a good bunch of wonderful friends such as you. I’m also inclined to believe I’m considerably fair for a woman as well,” A fleeting look of complicity crosses her silver gaze, yet Illidan knows it’s not the proper time to make a remark on that, “But then… what’s the point of all that, honestly? If nothing I have is _truly mine,_ ”

He’s ready to say something back and his mouth slightly opens to do so, but with Mylenne’s last words, Illidan suddenly feels lost for his own—whatever answer he had, dying on his lips within the next second. What can he possibly say, after all?

A silent moment goes by, Mylenne’s weeping gaze glancing past his shoulder, “Have I ever told you why I like to sing?” She says softly, not looking at him when he shakes his head in reply. “Because only when I sing it’s when someone hears my voice. Downstage, though… it seems nobody cares to hear what I have to say,”

Out of curiosity rather than anything else, Illidan follows her gaze, finding Tyrande and Shadowsong’s sister still engaged in that never-ending argue. “You can already see for yourself, you only need to take a look at them,” There’s an evident bitterness in Mylenne’s voice, the reason of the Priestesses’ discussion dawning on him easily enough without even needing to hear what they’re saying. “Is it always going to be like this? I tire of being handled as if a stupid ragdoll, Illidan. I tire of not having a voice in what I really want for my life…”

His lips purse for a moment, understanding wholeheartedly what she means, “And what do you really want?” Illidan asks her then, prompting her attention back to him.

“I want to make choices of my own, to make mistakes and learn from them,” Mylenne speaks as if she had just told the same thing many times over—tiredly, near annoyingly—but he listens intently anyways, “I want to be the only one who gets to decide who I really want to be, or which path I want to take in my life. Is that really _too hard_ to understand?”

He shakes his head once again in negative. “Sorry, I’m rephrasing it. What you really want _right now_?” As it’s been happening for the entire course of the evening, it merely takes a fleeting glance from her part to her frostsaber far up ahead for Illidan to get it, “Sounds good, let’s get out of here, then!” With an eager clap of his hands, he straightens right away, outstretching a hand for Mylenne to help her do the same, “Weather’s nice tonight; we can take a ride very far away from here and don’t look back… if you want me around, that is,”

Luckily, his sudden hesitation gets brushed away as a sheepish smile crosses Mylenne’s lips. “Yeah, I’d very much like that,” She admits, her miserable mood definitely looking like improving, “But what about—?”

He cuts off whatever attempt of a protest with placing an index finger over her lilac lips. “I also get to make a choice, you know?” Illidan remarks with a quirk of an eyebrow, unable to keep himself from brushing off a rebel tear falling down her cheeks, ever so delicately, “Has anyone ever tell you how gorgeous your eyes are? Mostly when you scowl _so ferociously_ at a compliment?” A teasing smirk crosses his lips a moment later, feeling content with merely making her smile. “Come on; let’s have a ride now, just the two of us… and Rak, of course,”  

With an apparent newfound energy, she eagerly takes the lead, their hands linked tightly as they meet Rak’shareh under the nearest tree, the beast stretching her paws lazily in a sort of greeting.  However, they don’t get that far before someone else _storms_ their way to them.

“Mylenne! Wha—where are you going?” Shadowsong’s sister barks at her, looking true to her usual temper, sharp silver eyes glaring heatedly, “We’re having a situation in here, and you’re just leaving me to deal with Tyrande and Alathea on my own?” Illidan can’t really help it with groaning in annoyance, hopping in on Rak’shareh’s saddle without bothering to spare a single glance the Priestess’ way. “What’s—how is it that _he_ can mount Rak!?”

Fortunately, Mylenne’s resolve seems already set, patting his knee in a signal to give her some space before mounting as well, taking the front, “And did you ever ask for my opinion in that _situation_ you’re dealing with, Maiev?” She replies coldly, jaw visibly clenching as she finally stares back at her Sentinel friend, “In any case, _he_ did,” She adds with a thumb pointing to her back and in Illidan’s general direction, “I’ll leave you to think about it. _Ishnu-alah_.”

Illidan doesn’t even try hiding the _utterly pleased_ smile that clings to his face when Maiev gapes at her friend, near slack-mouthed, looking as if she’d just been punched straight in the nose, and can’t help it as well with giving her a mocking once-over before taking their leave.

As they head out Tel’anor, he can certainly feel the Priestess’ gaze on his back—definitely like trying to throw daggers with her eyes only—but his smile never falters, savoring it like a victory. “Where are we heading, then?” He wonders nonchalantly, resting his chin on the top of Mylenne’s violet mane.

“Mmh, I’m thinking, Azsuna?” She merely shrugs, not sounding like genuinely caring for a real destination, looking more than willing to let Rak’shareh set their course as she leans her weight against his chest. “I know I don’t say this as often as I should, but… I’m so grateful to have such an incredible friend as you in my life. You’re a wonderful man, Illidan.”

He snorts in reply. “ _I know that_ ,” He points out in a playful tone, close to her lavender ear.

“Aaaaand with an insufferable ego bigger than my Manor, but nobody’s perfect, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm truuuuuuuuuly sorry for bringing up another insufferably long chapter T_T But this came up faster than the last one, right? _Right!?!?_ (Please, don't kill me! ._.)  
>  Oh, and you can find Illidan's full dream sequence on [Starsurge - Dreams of Azure: dear Lie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8777506/chapters/23011035).


	21. Painful Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, sweetie, you have absolutely no need to lie to me. I’m not stupid, I know you’ve been thinking about him probably for the whole dinner,” She doesn’t have the faintest idea how Hargo manages to keep that soft smile on his face while he speaks, how he still appears so collected and serene as always—being just as incredible as much as deeply concerning. “I’ve grown to know that smile on your face when you do so. And you think about him even more often than you realize,” A knowing look crosses his golden gaze as he faces her once again, “You talk in your sleep, did you know that?” 
> 
> Her heart misses a beat for a fleeting moment. He _knows_ , he’s _always known_ —probably even before herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for depressive themes and parental abuse.**

** Darnassian: **

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

 **Sashj’tar:** Elven town located east of Suramar, one of many districts from the Highborne city of Vashj’ir.

 **Eldarath:** Elven city, located far west of the Kaldorei capital, Elun’dris, southeast of Mount Hyjal. Partially famous for housing one of the first academies across the Empire dedicated to studying the arcane arts, such as the Mennar Academy.  


* * *

** Stareye **

**3 months later**

The wholesome routine that comes with having a job or a regular activity can be sometimes more useful than otherwise—a fact Mylenne is starting to realize as time goes by, finding herself without anything relevant to spend her nights on. Having some free time to visit her friends or go hunting with Rak’shareh may be one thing, but merely the blink of a moment had just passed for her to figure out how _boring_ her nights are becoming without having anything else to do.

Everyone seems to be moving on except her—having plans and big projects for their lives, or meeting new people along the road. Even Jarod had been sparing some hours from his endless work at the Hold to take Lady Starweave’s sister, Shalasyr, for a couple of dates. Surprisingly so, for a _dorei_ like him, but while Mylenne had been genuinely happy when he’d come up with the news a month ago, she also knew right away how harder it’ll be for Jarod and her to get together more often.

Not being on the best of terms with Maiev on the current moment also made a meeting with the Shadowsongs far less likely.

However, regarding the topic of plans; Illidan’s friend from the Moon Guard, Lothrius, had apparently found out—with a _more than obvious_ source—about her fondness to sing; coming up with a proposal of rehearsing together so to see if they could get something nice from it. Yet so far, that idea had been the only one that merely had motivated Mylenne as for these later months.

That without counting the couple of escapades she had with Illidan; only the two of them, Shareh, and the morning Sun behind them—just riding, no destination in mind.

Probably the closest thing she’d ever have to _freedom_.

A soft longing sigh escapes Mylenne at the thought of those nice mornings on the road, idly wondering when he’ll have some free time to travel together again. Up to then, Sashj’tar had been the farthest they’d got, although she’d already promised him to visit Eldarath—if and when Illidan could manage to earn more than a week off work, due to the many nights they’d need to get there—given his sheer interest on visiting Mennar Academy up south from the city.

An arm slides across Mylenne’s shoulders, bringing her closer in a tender manner, a soft squeeze following. “What’s on your mind, sweetie?”

_“—what’s on your mind, Lid?”_

_“Huh?” He blinked twice, still absentmindedly staring at her face, golden eyes following her eyebrows as they quirked up in question. For the course of a minute, he seemed to be somewhere else, too lost within his thoughts. “Nothing relevant. Just… enjoying the view,” A smile crossed his handsome face, relaxed and genuine, one she hadn’t seen on him for quite a while._

_For some reason—and if for a fleeting moment—also a_ grateful _one._

“Nothing relevant,” Mylenne repeats, the picture of Illidan’s smile lingering on her mind, prompting a similar one to cling on her lavender face. “Just… thinking,” A shrug of dismissal follows, not particularly feeling like elaborating.

Hargo and her turn around the corner, the sight of Suramar Bay and the calm expanse of the sea prompting Mylenne to relax against him. The moonlight feels warmer and more inviting than a month ago; a brighter gleam from moonstones, street lamps, and the sky itself announcing the arrival of spring. Having dinner on a sort of neutral restaurant—right between the outskirts and the Highborne streets of Suramar—had also been nice for a change, leaving the pair to wander around nowhere in particular afterwards.

Taking a seat on a nearby bench, they share a moment of silence, just basking in the view of the sea before them. True to his easy going nature, Hargo leaves her be for a while, crossing an ankle over a knee and leaning further on the bench—the clear picture of nonchalance.

As the breeze toys with some strands of her violet hair, Hargo speaks once again—softly, merely out of curiosity rather than anything else. “Is it Maiev?”

_“—is it Tyrande?”_

_“No… maybe so,” He snorted, partially apologetic, gaze darting to the silent landscape before them as if considering his next words, humming in thought. “Actually, now that you brought her up, I think it is,” A flash of confusion crossed his face as he idly fidgeted with the hem of her silken sleeve, appearing as if relishing in the softness of the fabric. “I haven’t been thinking about Tyrande for quite a while,” He then said, voice soft like making a confession._

_There was a tint of_ alarm _in his voice as well, prompting her attention away from the morning sky and straight on his scrunched features—Rak’shareh stirring slightly behind them. She patted his knee out of instinct, not liking the look on his face. “Is that a problem?” She wondered, a sense of uneasiness taking a grip on her._

 _“I honestly don’t know,” He sighed tiredly, but the motion didn’t seem to keep him from growing more conflicted, looking hesitant to come up with more words. “But also, there’s that: I haven’t been thinking about Tyrande,” He repeated more insistently, his concern turning into a worried frown, realization appearing to dawn on him, returning to glance back at her as if her face had the answers he needed, “How I managed not to spare a single thought on a woman I always believed I’d fallen for? It makes me wonder, have I ever_ loved _her at all?”_

_She considered her reply, deep down knowing how seriously he’d take her words. “Maybe you didn’t love her as strongly as you believed so,” She said carefully, somehow torn between being sincere and not wanting to lie on her thoughts either, “Maybe she’d been just a crush, a nice infatuation to entertain yourself with,”_

_He glared at her, “Entertain myself—? You say that as if I merely know her name,” There was a gleam of annoyance on his golden gaze, if very brief, “That’s… I don’t know. I barely remember how my childhood nights were before Malfurion and I met her. Tyrande had been on my life and on my head for half my lifetime,”_

_There was something he clearly wasn’t telling her—an ‘_ until’ _hanging in the air—but she didn’t push him into speaking further, very much less so when it regarded such a delicate topic as that woman. “But everything’s so different now. Ever since she…_ chose _my brother,” A small wince followed, “Nothing has really been the same. I changed, that’s true, but so did she. I just can’t help with thinking—“_

“—how much a person can change?” Mylenne wonders out loud, glancing at the starry sky with some sort of intent; silver eyes narrowing, nearly searching for something she’s not certainly sure she’d find in any constellation.

Hargo follows her gaze, apparently pondering over her question. “It depends on the eyes, I guess,” He says solemnly, worrying his dark lower lip ever so slightly—a tick Mylenne had grown used to see on him whenever he seemed unsure of his words. A silent moment later, he settles for one of his signature shrugs, natural and nonchalant as ever, “Sometimes it’s us who actually change, while we’d believe it’s the rest,”

Mylenne hums in thought, partially agreeing with his statement, leaning a little to the side to face him properly. “And you think I’ve changed?”

Imitating her posture, Hargo seems to study her wondering features for a minute. “Taking it from the first time I’ve met you… yes. Yes, you have,” An easygoing smile crosses his face, an endearing gleam on his soft golden gaze, “And for quite good, I dare say. You’re not that lonely anymore, for starters. Even managed to gather a very diverse group of _dorei_ around you—Sisters, jesters, nobles, musicians, spies…”

“ _Sorcerers_ ,” She can’t help with deadpanning.

A warm chuckle escapes him, prompting Mylenne to idly glance at his dark lips as they move; Hargo’s smile and laughter, two of his most attractive features. Certainly not as _charming_ as Illidan’s—most likely not close to making her knees wobble when that smile is directed _only_ at her—yet quite appealing regardless, alluring in its own unique way. “… Did you see yourself tagging along with Sorcerers? Do you think differently of us now?”

His light voice—a sheer contrast of the deep, baritone one crossing her thoughts—brings Mylenne out of her small reverie. “I guess I do?” She admits with a shrug, the midnight-black sleeves covering her shoulders leaning down her arms a couple of inches with the motion, “At least, not as a near menace as I once was inclined to believe,”

Hargo hums in admission, bringing one of her sleeves back to their proper place in a tender manner. “Then maybe you did change, sweetie,”

As their eyes meet for a fleeting moment, Hargo’s smile widens into a full grin, yet Mylenne doesn’t feel like smiling back, her gaze dropping elsewhere. While she’s positive he wouldn’t ever judge her—and if she gives it a second thought, that’s the very first thing that made her fall for him in the first place—it’s at particularly doubtful moments like those when she can’t help but secretly wish for the _exact opposite_. And she hadn’t been feeling fine with it, but Hargo’s ability to not bring _anything_ into an argument or even a constructive debate had started to, somehow, upset her as of late. 

Mylenne has always been more inclined to prefer having discussions or debates, finding a certain sense of personal growth when hearing opinions from different points of view. ‘Two heads think better than one’, her uncle had always said when she was a child, a statement she’d taken true and inevitably stick with as she grew up. However—and unlike Illidan… _again_ —Hargo’s compassionate and caring nature, pairing up with his apparent inability to retort anything back, can bring her frustrations and growing headaches more often than not.

Hargo always gives her the kindest of words, but Mylenne craves for honesty, for _truth_. And truth isn’t kind, in most cases.

A tired sigh leaves her lilac lips, pursing while her eyes shut close, struggling to not look as frustrated as she’s growing to be. “Maiev hasn't changed,” A slight bitter tone in Mylenne’s voice gives her away, one of Hargo’s thin cobalt eyebrows quirking up in curiosity. “She still hasn’t come to tolerate you or Illidan. Not even Lothrius, and we both know he’s just as harmless as a cub,” She wants to snort as if to lighten the mood, but all that comes out is a funny wheeze; unease and concern already pooling around her gut. “That worries me…”

Hargo scoots closer when her face scrunches, surely knowing she may be in need of some comfort, cradling one of her hands in his and making them rest in his lap. “You think she will sooner or later make you choose between us and her, isn’t it?” Comes his guessing, and while Mylenne hesitates for a moment, eventually she settles for nodding, if with some reluctance. “Mmh, I imagined so. Can’t help with feeling sorry for her, though,”

His last comment prompts her attention back to his pensive face, violet brows cinching, “Huh? How so?”

Surprisingly—and with some concern from Mylenne’s part—it’s him who looks away from her, glancing at the starry sky before them with all the serenity in the world. “Well, from what I’ve seen, you already made your choice a little while ago, Myl…” Hargo points out, relaxing further on the bench.

Mylenne tries to keep her breath from hitching, although it’s not much she can really do as a sense of discomfort takes a grip of her, batting her hand away from his lap in an act of reflex. There’s no need from Hargo to be more explicit as his comment clings above them both, the meaning more than obvious.

She feels entitled to say something back, but she can’t figure out a proper excuse before Hargo shakes his head. “Look, sweetie, you have absolutely no need to lie to me. I’m not stupid, I know you’ve been thinking about him probably for the whole dinner,” She doesn’t have the faintest idea how Hargo manages to keep that soft smile on his face while he speaks, how he still appears so collected and serene as always—being just as incredible as much as deeply concerning. “I’ve grown to know that smile on your face when you do so. And you think about him even more often than you realize,” A knowing look crosses his golden gaze as he faces her once again, “You talk in your sleep, did you know that?”

Her heart misses a beat for a fleeting moment. He _knows,_ he’s _always known_ —probably even before herself.

Mylenne begins feeling torn between sorely wanting to wipe out that smile off his face, start a rant or deny absolutely everything until her dying night. “How can you say that, Hargo? I mean, _dear Goddess_ …” She shoots an incredulous look at him, a mix of frustration, uneasiness, and a certain panic assaulting her altogether—almost not believing his collected attitude. “How can you say that to my face and not be _upset_ about it?”

His easygoing smile drops, if slightly, a flash of confusion crossing his golden gaze, “Why would I be upset? As far as I know, I am the one you still bring into your sheets,” Hargo says solemnly— _too honestly_ , too blatantly, even when it’s been exactly what she’d been looking forward to hearing—remarking the obvious.

For the matter, his observation only works for Mylenne to, then, grow offended, “Now you speak as if I’m using you to warm my bed, which sounds _even worse_!” She exclaims, eyes blowing wide and flinching away in an unconscious manner, definitely unable to take that amount of sincerity from him.

But then, when a regular _dorei_ within their common sense would defend themselves or bark something back at her, Hargo’s features soften once more, returning to take her hand between his tenderly, _lovingly_. “You forget I always had the chance to decide against it and walk away, but still, here I am,” His signature smile is open and inviting, warm eyes searching for her face as one of his hands cradles her cheek—with a certain carefulness, tentative even, “And I will be here for as long as you’ll have me,” Hargo declares, a thumb delicately brushing her cheekbone.

_“You have… something,” He made a vague gesture to his face, a moment later opting otherwise and leaning closer to her, wiping some moonberry jam off the corner of her lilac mouth with a knuckle. “There,” A small giggle escaped her, apparently prompting an amused smirk to cling to him, not helping with that faint blush that had started to creep on her cheeks with the motion._

_They stared at each other for the whole course of a minute—or an entire night, perhaps, she didn’t care—just smiling, basking on the familiar and comfortable sight of the other, no words really needed. It didn’t take long for his handsome face to shift and a sly smirk to appear, a playful gleam adorning his golden gaze, even more beautiful with the reflection of the evening Moon upon them._

_His hand never dropped, instead, climbed to cup her flushing cheek, a grin plastered all over his face. Her gaze traveled to his dark lips in an unconscious manner, the provocative curve of his mouth nearly screaming for her attention. “You know, if you want me to kiss you, you just need to say so…” He said sultrily, ever so slowly, fingertips teasingly brushing the line of her jaw as he leaned closer._

_Something on her stomach did a funny flip—if for the smell of what was left of their picnic below or his breath fanning her mouth, she couldn’t guess. It didn’t take much for her to explode in a fit of nervous laughter, however. “Oh, for Elune’s sake!” She pushed him away by the face, her own completely flushed, sending him to fall on his back over the cerulean grass._

_He didn’t seem to mind, looking smug as ever as they shared a contagious laugh, a set of sharp teeth showing behind his dark lips, resting his weight on his elbows as best as he could—not as easy as it seemed so, chest heaving under his open vest as he cackled wholeheartedly. “Once a charmer, always a charmer, isn’t it?” She remarked in a mocking tone, returning to chew another slice of bread._

_His grin never faltered, “I could say the same thing to you,” He shrugged nonchalantly, throwing a wink before relaxing further on the grass, supporting his head with a fist and appearing quite content with just watching her. “And when did I stop?”_

Mylenne’s eyes droop close, swallowing hard as the ice cold sensation of sheer shame appears to be dangerously close to overtaking all her senses. It comes to be embarrassing to even look Hargo in the eye, very much less so after what he just said; for he’s right, Hargo is _so right_ and it’s the blatant truth she’s been dodging and avoiding for so very long, a fact she still doesn’t have the strength to acknowledge true.

And how would she? She’s been selfish, dishonest, shameful, disgraceful for so long; the _irony_ of it all falling upon her as if a slap on the face. Missing, near _longing_ just for the mere company of one man, but sharing her days and her bed with another—in truth, she’s the most horrible of _dorei_. She doesn’t deserve someone as Hargo, she’s not worthy of a man such as him by a single inch.

But, for that matter, she doesn’t deserve a friend and a man such as Illidan either.

Her ears twitch and curve upwards at the sound of a pair of wings flopping close to where they are, spotting a familiar lavender owl flying towards them. Obliging as he always is, Hargo outstretches a clothed forearm to allow Normosh’el to land over; Mylenne still not daring to meet his face, her gaze forcefully intent on her owl as she takes the letter he brings, a sigh of evident defeat leaving her after noticing the sigil of House Stareye.

“Maybe some of us don’t really get to choose…” She laments, her voice merely a whisper, somehow in between not really sure what, of all things, she’s giving up for—most likely all of it.

The letter is short and to the point, however, thankfully not bringing her more disgusts than what she’s already accounting for, her father’s sign even longer than the letter’s content.

_“I am home. You better have a good explanation for this._

_Lord Desdel of House Stareye, Commander of the Rooksguard.”_

Hargo only clicks his tongue in dismissal, “And I dare call you wrong on that, sweetie. There is _always_ a choice,” He states with a surprising conviction, firm and secure, not appearing to be allowing a negative on the matter. “It only seems that, in your case, you’re just running out of time to make one…”

* * *

The Manor feels overwhelmingly big while she strides across the empty hallways, odd layers of dust covering the carpets, broken decoration spread around and about, big windows and furniture. Abandoned and shallow, that’s how her house looks and feels like; precisely how her uncle and Mylenne’s friends had left it some months back during Silgryn’s ransack.

The doors of the main hall make a weird noise as she opens them and saunters in, Lord Desdel’s shadow giving away his lone presence; nearly occupying half the hall, huge and ominous thanks to the reflection of the dim fireplace. Her father doesn’t face her right away, appearing to be contemplating the small flickering flames before him, his back turned to her and dark fur cloak resting on one arm—surely to prevent it from getting dirtier than what already looks like.

Mylenne merely ventures into the room, somehow not daring even to breathe, already bracing for the lecture that’s about to come, her stomach churning and heart racing in apprehension. Lord Stareye doesn’t look at her right away, merely showing a portion of his face as a way to acknowledge her presence. “You really take me for an idiot, isn't it?”

She can’t help with startling when his deep voice echoes across the big hall, her breath hitching as he turns and faces her. “Of course not, _An’da_ ,” It’s the only reply she can come with, not really finding her voice and her throat feeling like closing as Lord Desdel approaches her, just as menacing as the nightsaber he’s popularly called—notoriously and fittingly so. “I have no idea what happened here, I—“

A deep growl cuts off whatever excuse she tries to elaborate, his broad figure looming over her in a moment’s notice, silver eyes blazing. “Look at your father when you address him,” Mylenne tries to come up with something else to say, but only a gasp escapes her as Lord Desdel grabs her by the chin, forcefully making her face him. “You know you’re a horrible liar, don’t you, child?” His gaze bores into her furiously, a long nail pressing onto her cheek, “Let’s say I believe for a moment you weren’t here. So, it was the _insolent_ of your uncle,”

His voice is so calm and collected, yet it does its intended work of nearly sending her _trembling_. “I… I really c-can’t say, _An’da_ , I have n-no idea,” Lord Desdel only inhales sharply through his nostrils, another intense blaze flashing on his gaze.

“You’re _lying!_ ” He bellows through clenched teeth, nails digging deeper, close to prickle her skin, _“_ I know you’ve been seeing him, Mylenne. I know _everything_ you’ve been doing in my absences,”

Her eyes get glossy, the cold feeling of dread settling on her gut as, in an act of reflex, Mylenne clutches her father’s wrist, “I’m not—you’re hurting me, _please_ ,” She cries, lilac lips already trembling.

“Then… Stop… Lying… To your father,” Desdel’s sharp fangs spread before her, growing more incensed within each second passing, a thin strand of midnight black hair falling down his scrunched forehead. He doesn’t seem to be taking pity of his daughter as tears start falling down her cheeks, yet in some way it appears to make him change his mind, letting her go quite abruptly a moment later. “Now speak, child. What is Silgryn up to? What does he want you for, now? To keep feeding his _obsession_ with his long gone sister?”

Mylenne genuinely considers the idea of telling him everything, knowing deep down she’s facing but a mere glimpse of Lord Stareye’s real wrath, sheer panic attempting to overtake her rational senses. But how wise is it, really? As much as she’s aware Silgryn is up to something deeper than what he’s letting her know, she can’t really deny she’d rather be very far away from every sick scheme every member of her family seems to be into.

She doesn’t have many memories of what really happened the night of Silgryn’s assault at the Manor either way, only some short, incongruent flashbacks; the cold corridors of her mother’s secret vault as she ventured in, Illidan’s soothing voice with a tint of alarm as he held her in his arms, an awful fever that lasted a whole week. Mylenne’s recollections are clearer the moment she woke up from her strange slumber—how worried and _near panicked_ she’d felt as she found Illidan’s familiar dusk lily resting on her bedside table, but Hargo’s hand holding her while she slept—but from the moment she entered Aedriel’s vault, her memories get blurry and hard to decipher.

Nobody had been quite willing to tell her about it as well, but as a matter of fact, she hadn’t been insisting on the subject either, pretty much obliging with the change of topics as fast as it came out. Although and to be completely honest, the reality is… she’d been thinking it all wrong.

For she’s not the most disgraceful of _dorei_ ; in truth, she’s only the most _coward_ of them all, and nothing else.

Shameful, selfish, dishonest, and a _coward_. Dirty, unworthy, that’s really who she is.

“ _I don’t know!_ How would I?” Comes her remark—and it’s easier to keep going through the road of complete denial now that she’d already started doing so. “You know Silgryn isn’t stupid. I’m sure he’s pretty much aware I’d be telling you everything if he does so,” Even with her trembling voice, Mylenne has no idea how she manages to hold her lies to the very face of her father, of all _dorei_. Although and then again, she’s not up to look a cub gift in the mouth.

Lord Stareye’s upper lip twitches in a silent growl at the mere mention of her uncle’s name, pinning Mylenne in place with his heated gaze only for the longest of minutes—studying her, like a prowler would before finishing with their prey’s misery. “And he’s clever in keeping you from knowing. Yes, I’ll admit that sounds like him,” With an evident irritation, he leaves her be, returning to pace across the hall, “Bah! I should have known you’re useless even for interrogation…”

Mylenne exhales the breath she hadn't noticed she’d been holding, if subtly, her heart still trying to hammer its way out of her chest. When her father puts a considerable distance between them, she unconsciously rubs the irritated skin of her neck and jaw with a cold palm, feeling shy and scared to even move. “M-may I go now, _An’da_? Or do you n-need me for something else?” She can’t help with wincing at her choice of words, although doesn’t find a way to come up with anything more at that point.

A dark chuckle echoes across the main hall, ominous as ever, a cold chill running down Mylenne’s spine. “And _where_ exactly are you going? To meet your Sorcerer lover?” Lord Stareye doesn’t even bother facing her again, merely glancing in her direction through the corner of his eye. “You’re still taking me for a fool, child. You _never_ could hide anything from me, even when you really tried to…”

His thick, dark cloak gets dirty as it brushes the dirty floor of the hall, stumbling upon broken porcelain and glass on its way, yet not pegging down Lord Desdel’s menacing figure as it looms over her once more; a knowing smirk, quite tinged with malice spread across his face. “I know you’ve taken a lover for the past couple of years. What’s his name?” He pretends to think about it while staring Mylenne down, tapping his chin with a long index finger, “Ah, _Hargo’then_ , a lower-rank Officer from the Moon Guard, is that right?”

Her heart skips a beat when he mentions Hargo’s name, yet something quite close to _relief_ also courses through her as he doesn’t seem to involve anyone else in her… liaisons. _Shame on you, you coward!_ “There’s no need for you to worry about him, _An’da_ ,” Mylenne tries to excuse herself once again, “He’s merely—“

“Bah! Spare me,” Desdel bats a hand close to her face, making her flinch away in an act of reflex, “I don’t have the slight interest to know about your affairs, Mylenne. You can take dozens of men and women to warm your bed for all I care… as long as they’re not married nobles, of course,” An offended snort follows, his hard nose scrunching, “At least you can’t be looked down upon that.” He adds with a certain admission, if reluctant.

Mylenne’s gaze drops elsewhere, unable to take on her father’s for any longer. Giving it a second thought and being somewhat honest, she’s willing to admit that, putting aside his miserable expectations of her and his usual awful treatment, at least Lord Desdel doesn’t bother to lie on her own face. His way can be excruciatingly cruel, but it’s the _honest truth_ after all.

Someway in between, she’s growing inclined to believe it’s merely what she _deserves_ as well.

Sheer disgust and shame courses through her as Lord Stareye leans down and touches her face once again, her eyes shutting close and shoulders tensing, bracing for the worst of his wrath. “Regardless, don’t believe I’ve forgotten about what I’ve been setting up for you.” His voice is cold and with that subtle hint of warning he tends to carry on in his words, patting her cheek near mockingly—almost as if _tempting_ her to dare flinch away. “As always, I’m still working on what’s best for the progress of our Household. So far, Lieutenant Shadowsong keeps being your perfect match, so by all means, have all the fun you want while you can… because you _will_ take him as your husband.” When he lifts her chin with an index finger, this time Mylenne doesn’t resist, “Be a good girl and remind your uncle about that, will you?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows hard, struggling to find her voice. “If that’s your wish, _An’da_ ,” Mylenne only murmurs, voice strained, not daring to move a single finger.

A pleased smile spreads across his hard face, “It is indeed.” He takes another excruciating moment to stare her down before letting her go completely, nearly pushing her away, “Now get out of my sight! I have thousands of things to worry about for you to be meddling around and pestering me,” Lord Stareye barks, turning to take on the huge mess of their main hall once again.

Mylenne doesn’t need to be told twice, trying her best to be somewhat subtle and not make an evident sprint outside the Manor, yet closing the big doors of the hall in a rush and running away either way, as silently as she can.

* * *

The first rays of the morning Sun hit her straight in the face as she turns around the corner, panting moderately after placing as much distance as she could from herself and the Stareye Manor, striding down not so crowded streets and avoiding as many people as she can on her way. The air is chill, yet it gets colder than her liking once she hits the road leading to Suramar’s outskirts, considerably slowing her fast pace, feeling tired, so very tired…

And not precisely of running.

She’s tired of constantly feeling handled like a ragdoll, of struggling, of not being heard, of wearing the name she wears, tired of even dealing with her sick pretense of a family if there ever was one. However, it’s while leaning against the nearest tree to take a small break when Mylenne comes with the small realization of the most tiresome and excruciating feeling to top it all, is that she most likely _deserves_ everything that had come upon her.

Why keep denying it, though? She’s a very bad friend, a terrible companion, a worst niece and the clear example of what a daughter _shouldn’t_ be. In that regard, her father has always been right about her, and she just proves him right as the years went by with never trying enough—never deeming herself worthy of anything, not even to hold the reins of her own life.

_Perhaps I should just give up and let father decide my fate after all. What’s the point of going against the tides, either way?_

She already has stopped paying attention to the road ahead for quite a while, opting to let her feet guide the way, hugging herself and with her head hanging low, too lost in her miserable thoughts and wrecked state to be worried about anything else. Merchants and families come and go on the road up north to Vanthir’s bar, yet she just doesn’t bother to greet anyone along the way.

Somehow and even with feeling distanced from the realm of the living, a deep baritone voice and a flash of cobalt hair capture Mylenne’s eye just as easy as _breathing_ , far away on the northern side of the road.

Illidan waves at her near frantically, an odd gesture that would have made her at least cackle in any other moment, “Mylie! Hey!” The insistent tone in his voice brings her to hesitate for a second, but as she spots his company through her periphery, Mylenne merely settles for nodding politely before resuming her walk, her sheepish smile never reaching her eyes.

Ever the most persistent of her acquaintances, Illidan doesn’t seem to leave her be just like that, a tiresome sigh leaving her lips while she notices him prompting his group to approach her—a curious Sylenna still snatching his arm. “Goddess, Mylie, I’m so, _sooooo_ sorry,” He appears to sound utterly mortified, a concerned frown creasing Mylenne’s forehead, “I completely forgot our meeting!”

She can’t help with tilting her head in confusion, not recalling anything like that either from their last meeting nor usual correspondence. “What—?“ Mylenne begins, not finding the patience or will to properly acknowledge Illidan’s twin, Malfurion, or Priestess Tyrande as the pair catches up with them.

Her late closest friend is quick to capture her eye, sending a brief yet obvious _wink_ her way. “I know, I should have let you know. It’s just that Mal and Tyra found me and… I’ll tell you later,” Mylenne has no remote idea what Illidan is up to as of then, yet as he appears to be quite fixed on finding excuses to leave his group, there’s not much she’s willing to do but let him be. “My apologies for having to leave you so abruptly, but there’s something we really need to… _address_ with Mylenne,”

With her tolerance wearing thin—definitely unwilling to endure anyone else’s sudden company except Illidan, and even doubting that—Mylenne settles for resuming her walk, decidedly not casting a glance at Illidan’s current… _lover_ , her cascade of bright silver-white hair waving softly as she still appears to cling to his arm. “But, Illy, you promised—” Mylenne’s mouth contorts in a disgusted sneer with Sylenna’s choice of a name, hopefully going unnoticed.

Mylenne’s not sure why she half turns to glance past her shoulder, surely out of curiosity rather than anything else, but she’s fast with completely regretting it. “And I _promise_ I’ll make it up to you, Lenna,” A tang of evident jealousy courses through her as Illidan leans down and kisses Sylenna, if very briefly and in an evident haste, still prompting Mylenne to fast her pace and distance herself from the newest Priestess as much as she can.

Walking up a small hill as a shortcut to Vanthir’s bar, Mylenne grumbles under her breath as Illidan catches up with her in a moment’s notice, coming up behind her and sliding his arm across the crook of her elbow in a certainly haughty manner. As much as she’s usually more than comfortable with his company, her sour mood appears to be a remarkable contrast to her friend’s pleased one by then, not feeling like properly meeting his eye.

Coming to the conclusion of being stuck with him as of then, Mylenne makes a considerable effort of at least have a small talk. “So, how is the newest fancy Spellcaster on town? I take it you couldn’t stand your brother anymore?” She guesses, judging by how relieved he seems to be for leaving his company behind.

A smug smirk crosses his handsome face at the mention of his late promotion on the Moon Guard, chin held high proudly. “Now that you’re here, way better,” Illidan smiles, if quite briefly, “But ugh, yes, it was _torturing_ me. Although I did promise I was at least going to try seeing him more often, right—?”

Somehow in between, he finally appears to give her a once over, inhaling sharply and tugging at her arm, prompting the two of them to a stop. She’s about to protest, having reached the end of her patience, yet it’s as Mylenne finally meets his face, she can’t help with her breath hitching when she notices the reason of his abrupt disturbance.

“ _Mylenne,_ what—!?” In the mere course of a second, Illidan’s soft smile shifts into an utterly _incensed_ sneer, staring wide-eyed at her—surely and quite easy to assume so, given how sore it still feels—bruised neck. Her first thought is to hide it, head hanging low in shame, the whole night’s events falling down on her like the heaviest of cloaks, her shoulders slumping down.

Nonetheless, even as she looks away and purses her lips, that doesn’t seem to help with her companion’s apparent outrage, coming to stand in her way down the hill, golden eyes flashing with many dark promises. Illidan holds her by the shoulders, leaning down and searching for her face, “This wasn’t Hargo,” He growls through clenched teeth, his deep voice showing how evidently offended he is.

“Mylenne, tell me who did this so I can _slaughter them_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest and say _I don't have the faintest idea_ how I managed to bring an update as fast as I did. I know I said these next chapters were most likely to come up faster than the others, but honestly, I didn't really mean it in the literal sense of the word, hahaha. Not that I'm complaining, though :B
> 
> As a sort of PSA, I'll be traveling to another city this next Sunday, so I can't really say how I'll manage to keep my updates in this fast pace - but this doesn't mean I'll go on hiatus or anything like that! Oooooh no sir, these dorks aren't going anywhere, not if I have a say on it!  
> But yeah... I must be honest and admit it'll be harder than before, even more so because I'll be looking forward to settling in this city for good, and given I don't have a job - and can't really look for one thanks to my mental illnesses - I'm already guessing it'll be twice as hard to find some time for writing and drawing. 
> 
> I wasn't really looking forward to saying this, but if you'd like to help me out in this very complicated moment of my life, I'm open to [art commissions](https://hoxadrine-art.tumblr.com/commissioninfo), or you can always [Buy me a Coffee](https://ko-fi.com/hoxadrine). Any single bit is more than appreciated and you'll have my heart on a plate if you consider helping me out - and it's not like you don't own my heart already, but you know, it'll mean the world to me ♥ 
> 
> As always, thank you all so so _sooooo_ much for your incredible support, for your questions, your curiosity, and just for being as awesome as you all are. Every single word from you guys always makes my days brighter, and honestly, I don't really know what would be of me without you around :)  
>  **You're the best of the best and keep being AWESOME! ♥**


	22. Blood and Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _It is_ that easy,” He can’t help but insist, closing his fingers over hers—her hands, her figure appearing smaller than usual, irking him even more so. “I’d kill anyone who dares to lay a single finger on you, Mylie. I wouldn’t care if it’s the _fucking consort_ of the Queen, I wouldn’t be thinking twice about it,” Their eyes fix on the other once again and he doesn’t even blink, unrelenting, resolute in not taking anything back, wanting to let his words sink in as one of the truths he hasn't said in a long time.
> 
> In a—if ironically awful—perfect timing, there's another voice countering him; not the one he currently wants to hear and dangerously similar to his own, yet at the same time it's not.
> 
> _Is that so? Even if that one is yourself, Stormrage?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for violence, blood, swearing, character death and smoking. Oh, and plot thickening (?)**

**Darnassian:**

**Eldarath** : Elven city, located far west of the Kaldorei capital, Elun’dris, southeast of Mount Hyjal. Partially famous for housing one of the first academies across the Empire dedicated to studying the arcane arts, such as the  **Mennar Academy** .

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural. 

**Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating. Slang:  **Sart(e)** .

**Jai’sural:** “The betrothed’s pledge”. A  _ jai’sural _ is a golden metallic necklace, worn by a betrothed female and bound onto the female’s neck with magic. Once set, a silver-white precious stone in the form of a tear is shown in the middle of the necklace, representing the favor of Elune. It can be only taken out after marriage. 

**Vashj’ir** : One of the most important Highborne cities of the Empire, homeland of the current Queen of the kaldorei, Lestharia of House Vashj. At Embrace 30:1, Vashj’ir is ruled by Queen Lestharia’s eldest daughter, Princess Azshara Vashj. 

**Quel / Quel’dorei:** Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.   


* * *

**Stormrage**

The mere sight makes his blood boil, poisonous bile climbing up his throat, feeling quite close to nauseated all of a sudden. “Mylenne, tell me who did this so I can  _ slaughter them _ ,” He doesn’t hesitate to growl, eyes flashing with certainty, the nuisance of his past unexpected meeting feeling like weeks away by then. 

Her lips purse as if hurt, not quite meeting his face, even looking like… ashamed. He wants to prompt her to look at him—and why shouldn’t she? She knows she can trust him with anything—and he’s aware he’s being kind of demanding,  but Mylenne more than most people knows best in how, sometimes, he also needs the reminder of having someone they  _ really trust  _ like one another as they have. However, it’s as his hand attempts to cradle her face when she flinches instantly. 

“Don’t.” She mutters, shying away. 

With apparent decision on her feet, Mylenne turns her back to him, definitely resolute with keeping her distance and resuming her walk, almost acting as if she’d been alone all the time. A half-offended sneer narrows Illidan’s face, but he doesn’t snap right away, his suspicions clouding the rest of his rational thoughts as he falls beside her—taking precious care in not touching her again. 

Walking down the hill together, the bar Illidan regularly visits with his friends isn’t yet on sight before he comes with the most obvious conclusion, taking a brief glance at the road leading to the noble districts of Suramar City. “You’ve been with your father,” He doesn’t wonder about it, neither needs to when his gut assures him so—even less so when Mylenne merely nods ever so slightly, the gesture almost going unnoticed. 

Unlike everything, he can’t really believe it, not by an inch, how anyone could treat their own child, their  _ only child _ , just as disgustingly as that. “Elune… How can he do that to you!?” Illidan snarls through clenched teeth, hot, near blinding outrage coursing through him, even growing more upset with how Mylenne still allows this for herself. “To his own daughter… how—“  

How dare he lay a single finger on his daughter? How dare he and still get on with it? Illidan had known him for having questionable motives on his way to gain a better position for his Household, but everything seems so clear now, bared before his very eyes. Silgryn had been right all along—his quarrels with Lord Desdel have always been very well founded, and he feels like a  _ sart  _ for once doubting Silgryn’s motives. 

With her father’s actions, Illidan then believes he can grasp some of Lord Desdel’s twisted intentions for the past years; his secrecy, his letters and constant connections with the Great Houses of Suramar, his—not so subtle as of then—attempt of controlling his only daughter, all of it has a certain meaning. If his daughter obeys him blindly and faithfully, Lord Desdel can keep his place as patriarch and first head of his Household, not needing to submit to the only rightful ruler left within House Stareye, which is actually… Mylenne. 

Illidan can’t help but wonder when did that obsession for power really began. Has it been when Conjurer Stareye decided to take him as her husband? Or perhaps when their daughter was born, unconsciously threatening to take over the leadership of the House he worked hard to get into? Regardless, his teeth clench at the mere thought of Lord Desdel walking down the streets with his chin held high, living up the noble life and still being acclaimed for his past great deeds.

_ What he only deserves is a broken neck. _

“Because he  _ hates _ me,” He nearly startles when Mylenne comes to a stop all in a sudden, still not looking like wanting to talk about it although appearing to make an effort in doing so. “He hates my stupid face and everything that relates to me,” The fact of her stating the point in such an obvious tone doesn’t help with Illidan’s palpable indignation in the slightest, his lips pursing repulsively. He’s about to add something back but her dejected glance cuts him off, their eyes finally meeting for the first time in the evening. “Because I’m merely a pawn to him, a worthless piece of meat to use on his road to power. That’s how...”

Her tired silver gaze, duller than regular, speaks quite more than her words, prompting him to take a tentative step closer, somehow still not coming to understand the whole picture. Very much less so when all he can think of is in the sheer  _ pleasure  _ of snapping Lord Desdel Stareye’s neck in half with his bare hands. 

However—and almost ironically, even—it’s as his gaze darts below her lavender face when a previous pondering crosses his mind. “And why you still allow this, Mylie?”  He asks genuinely, his voice surprisingly soft given his outraged state. 

Apparently, it’s Mylenne’s turn to grow offended, a hard frown creasing her forehead. “How is it that you believe I do?” Illidan can’t really tell if her upsetting actually comes from his questioning or something else entirely, yet he doesn’t feel like conceding either way—arms crossing and gaze not faltering. She snorts and rolls her eyes in reply, “We talked about this, Illidan. You know how many years I’ve spent trying to figure out a way to…” She gestures vaguely around them, “There isn’t anything I can do against it. In the end, he’s my father, and I should—”

In the end, he’s also tired of hearing the same speech over and over. “But you  _ can _ ! You can leave this city for good! I can even go with you!” Illidan grabs her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly in a way to make her snap out of it, “We can settle on Eldarath, just think about it for a minute! You have the forests to go hunting with Rak and keep working on your archery, I can even manage to apply for a post on Mennar Academy,” His face softens for a moment, savoring his own clever idea as he gets on her eye level, “How does that sound?”  

A sheepish smile crosses her lilac lips for a fleeting moment, a warming spark of hope coursing through him as she lays a hand atop his tenderly. “It sounds lovely, Lid. It really does,” He feels a retort coming, yet in that case he allows it so out of their comfortable closeness rather than anything else. “And I’m sure we’d be fine… or that could be until father comes with his troops to drag me again,” It merely takes that for a tang of disappointment to show on Illidan’s face, but she’s quick in grabbing his hands as he drops them, “Listen, I really appreciate the gesture, but believe me when I tell you it’s not as easy as you put it…”

She’s not right and the fact that, in some way, they  _ both  _ know that annoys Illidan to no avail. “ _ It is _ that easy,” He can’t help but insist, closing his fingers over hers—her hands, her figure appearing smaller than usual, irking him even more so. “I’d kill anyone who dares to lay a single finger on you, Mylie. I wouldn’t care if it’s the  _ fucking consort _ of the Queen, I wouldn’t be thinking twice about it,” Their eyes fix on the other once again and he doesn’t even blink, unrelenting, resolute in not taking anything back, wanting to let his words sink in as one of the truths he hasn't said in a long time. 

In a—if ironically awful—perfect timing, there's another voice countering him; not the one he currently wants to hear and dangerously similar to his own, yet at the same time it's not. 

_ Is that so? Even if that one is yourself, Stormrage? _

Mylenne rolls her eyes in dismissal, a slight blush similar to the color of her bruises creeping to her cheeks, although it's not after a blink when Illidan notices she's not at his side but crossing the road, once more leaving him behind. When did that happen? 

Shaking his head and snapping out of his own reverie, he catches her in a moment's notice, already unlatching his new purple cloak to provide her some subtle cover—half-consciously taking the gesture as an odd way to  _ ground _ himself as well. “Look, if I haven’t done so, is merely out of respect for your decisions,” Illidan continues, trying his best to keep up with her in… all possible ways.

“It's not that,” She grunts, bending her neck and allowing him to tie the cloak over her figure, sending a grateful smile his way, if briefly, “You don’t deserve to become a murderer for my stupid sake, Illidan.” She doesn't meet his face again as the colorful rooftop from Vanthir’s bar starts to show some meters ahead, head hanging low, looking close to engrossed in her own thoughts, “Nobody does... not even me,”

A tiresome sigh leaves him, partially knowing that of all things, she may be somewhat right with that one, although not precisely helping with toning down his indignation. It’s unfair, it’s near sickening, it’s unjust, and Illidan just can't stand injustice—very much less so when Mylenne has all the power to change her own fate for good. While she adjusts the hems of his cloak to cover herself a little, the rest of their walk isn’t that rushed as before but silence clings heavily around them. It feels like having her right beside him, yet  _ miles away _ at the same time, inevitably itching him some more.

Eventually, he can’t handle it anymore, sliding a careful arm across her shoulders. “Look, just know whatever you decide to do, you’ll have my unending support. But if you really wish to turn the tides in your favor… then maybe you should stop struggling with the nobility,” His comment makes Mylenne glance at him through the corner of her silver eyes, a soft yet brief gleam on them prompting him to continue, “You know what they say, about having your friends close and your enemies closer?” 

Mylenne hums, leaning slightly closer to him—if because of the chill morning breeze rising up north or a sudden need for some comfort, Illidan can’t tell. “I may have heard that once or twice. Not from anyone I trust, though,” She admits with a shrug, her nonchalant tone appearing to leave him to take that in any way he likes. 

For the matter, the small remark makes Illidan smirk proudly, bringing her a little closer. “Then take it from me, and consider learning your way on the Game of the Court. You even have important friends among the nobility that could be of real help.” He arches a sly cobalt brow her way, fully aware she knows who he’s precisely talking about, “Your father wants you to be a proper Lady? Then be so, be the most  _ dashing _ Lady around, until the time comes when you’ll be even more influential and powerful than him, and he wouldn’t have the chance to keep a single leash on you. Wrap them around your fingers, have them eating from your palm and not even daring to look at you in the eye, and you’ll be the only winner. What do you really have to lose anyway?”

Even when he starts realizing he’s getting carried away once again, something wicked then flashes on Mylenne’s eyes as she stares back at him, this time appearing to be thoroughly considering the idea. Or at least that’s what it looked like for a moment, for in the next she chortles, a sudden fit of laughter visibly coming from the bottom of her throat, making it bobble. “Why do I get the feeling you’re already picturing me in Syrana’s fancy gowns and  _ fully enjoying it _ ?” Mylenne cackles, amusement narrowing her lavender face. 

Illidan can’t help with grinning back mischievously, feeling delighted with the sight of her gorgeous face as it brightens with her mirth, the morning Sun painting her cheeks in pretty shades of violet as it spreads across her delicate markings. As her magical aura gleams ever so slightly, she looks like a beautiful dusk lily in the precise moment when it blooms with the first rays of moonlight, and it’s no wonder why he’d grown to favor that flower so fondly these late years. 

On another level, it also fills him with a deep  _ yearning _ to kiss her breathless, so to get a glimpse of how real beauty tastes like.  

His lips part to say something back—not feeling like breaking the moment, yet also somewhat motivated to make another subtle move and brighten both their moods some more—although it’s when Mylenne stirs, something else catching her eye, when Illidan notices they’re not alone. Out of sheer instinct, he tucks her closer to his chest before following her gaze, swallowing an annoyed groan as he finds a  _ dorei  _ striding their way.   

He’s sure his displeasure to see him won’t ever change, but as Mylenne frowns in evident concern at her lover, Illidan can’t help but obliging and meeting the man halfway, if reluctantly. However, as Hargo’then’s eyes first lay on  _ him _ , a sense of uneasiness pools around his gut. “Thank the Goddess, it’s very good to see you, Stormrage,” Hargo pants softly, merely nodding at Mylenne below—probably because they’ve seen each other on that night, Illidan can’t really say for sure—making him tilt his head in sheer confusion. “I need you to come with me at once,”

Illidan blinks twice, taken aback by the sudden order, but doesn’t feel like letting Mylenne interfere as she looks like wanting to ask. “You’re not my boss and even if you were, I’m off duty,” He objects, brushing off all possible courtesies between them. For the matter, he also grows curious about Hargo’s odd approach. “What do you want?” 

He doesn’t need an answer, however, for in the next second Mylenne gasps in surprise, forgetting about him and her lover as fast as the blink of an eye and running past them both. On the backyard of Vanthir’s bar, he’s greeted with the sight of Silgryn trying his best to console a young woman, the latter throwing her arms at Mylenne and bursting into tears the mere moment she sees her.  

Silgryn’s silver eyes flash with growing outrage after appearing to catch a glimpse at his niece, but Illidan’s faster in throwing him a serious look, silently promising to talk about the previous event in a better time. After a grunt, the elder Stareye obliges, leaving Mylenne to comfort their acquaintance and turning to him. “There’s been an…  _ incident _ at Scarleth’s brothel,” Silgryn says gravely, his voice low and only for Illidan to hear, “Please be a good lad and follow Pretty, here. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can,”

His nasty frown deepens, sending Silgryn a hard glare. He must be mad to be thinking he’d ever follow that insufferable  _ sart  _ willingly. However, it appears the elder Stareye is actually as insane as he believes so, not even letting him complain. “It’s important, Illidan,” Silgryn’s tone doesn’t leave a way for a negative, very much less so when he gets on calling him by his name. 

He notices Hargo staying at a considerable distance from the group, but it’s Mylenne who catches Illidan’s attention—as she always does—glancing at him past the woman’s shoulder, still sobbing uncontrollably. “It’s okay, Lid, I’ll catch you up later too,” She assures with a solemn nod, “Leave Verene to me,”

Not appearing to have a way out, Illidan sighs heavily afterwards, acquiescing with Mylenne’s silent plea and turning to follow Hargo, summoning all the tolerance he can muster, grumbling under his breath. “This better be  _ really  _ serious, or else...”

* * *

All he needs is to take a step inside the familiar brothel for his gut to twist in apprehension, the warm candlelights decorating the place turned off, a grim ambiance surrounding the main hall. Spotting a lone figure close to the way up to the attendance rooms, Hargo approaches them with evident carefulness, Illidan turning to follow.

“We are not attending this evening.” A female voice grumbles when they get too close, shrouding herself among the shadows. “I would appreciate if you leave,”

“Matron Scarleth?” Hargo says softly, appearing to not wanting to startle the woman or warn her in any way. Illidan stays still when he doesn't get a reply, considering their options—even when he has been a regular customer some decades back, it's clear right then they're not welcomed this evening. However, his companion doesn't look like just leaving it be, “We got word from a sparrow,” 

Sharp golden eyes who appear to have seen too much lay on the two of them like a dim light in the darkness. “A sparrow, you say?” After Hargo's solemn nod, the woman takes a tentative step closer to the sunlight coming from a high window, revealing a portion of her figure, “And why two owls stand before me instead?” A gleam of suspicion flashes across the woman's eyes, pacing slowly, subtly not letting them more room to get further in.

Illidan ponders about interjecting, although his gut says otherwise, still trying to figure out why he's been sent here, of all  _ dorei— _ and with that insufferable man as the one joining him, nonetheless. “The Wanderer sends his condolences, milady,” Hargo’s tone is slightly more insistent, keeping a very polite and peaceful approach, “Is of his utmost relevance, however, to catch a glimpse at the events from the last evening before the scene gets…  _ compromised _ ,” He remarks, crossing his hands behind his back and briefly glancing at Illidan past his shoulder as to prompt him to do the same, “We have been sent in his stead, given the dire situation,”

The matron narrows at the two of them through crinkled slits, thoroughly studying them from head to toe, a heavy silence falling on the room which irks Illidan more than he'd like. A long moment goes by, yet right when Illidan makes his mind and decides to push Hargo into leaving the woman be, she takes another step further, fully revealing herself. “Where is she? Is she safe?” Scarleth's face is hard like stone, but a very subtle trembling in her voice gives her away, golden eyes flashing briefly with sheer concern.

Hargo appears to try to come up with a reply—surely doing his best to not give any names or irrelevant information as they both have been insisted on not to—but hesitates when the matron’s eyes lay on Illidan instead, looking like wanting an answer from him. Should it be wise to just cut off with the annoying secrecy? 

_ Bah, what could possibly go wrong with that? It's clear she's not letting you meddle around either way… _

Dipping his chin straight, Illidan meets the matron's eyes, his resolve set. “We can assure she is in very good hands,” He replies, holding Scarleth's scrutiny with all the easiness in the world, very much unlike his companion who glares at him warningly—not like he cares that much about it, however. “She has been left accompanied and cared of by Lady Stareye herself,”

Hargo's eyes widen, his breath hitching slightly, but Illidan remains stoic and determined; trying to keep a smug smirk to show on his face when Scarleth's sharp eyes glint in an evident sense of recognition. Another tense moment goes by, yet he already knows who has given in way before the matron dips her head. “Last door on the right,” She sighs, a set of delicate silver bracelets glinting with the sunlight's reflection as she moves aside to let them pass and reach the stairs, “Please, do not… bother my sparrows that much. They deserve the embrace of the Goddess more than most in this blasted place,”

Hargo says nothing while Illidan tilts his head in a courteous manner at the woman and leads the way up, not really hiding how pleased he is with himself as they move forward without a word between them. Without any pretty courtesan swaying and leading the way along the hallway, the place feels to have lost that particular opulence and typical obliviousness he got used to as for the last time he'd visited it, the icy feeling of  _ absence  _ falling on him like a heavy cloak, sending his shoulders slumping down. 

Even with being full of fake praises and faker smiles, this was a quite cheery place before, happy even. What could possibly have happened to make a brothel look more like a  _ graveyard _ ?

“I’m not cut off for mindless secrecies. All of you should know that by now,” Illidan remarks when he notices Hargo shaking his head in apparent disappointment through his periphery, “Why haven't you brought Thaedris instead? He might have been more discreet than me, if that's what you really wanted,” He can't help with wondering. 

“Because we trust you, of course,” Hargo says without hesitation, leaving him with more ponderings than he’d like. Illidan’s conscious he’s always been distant and even—if impolitely—hostile with Mylenne’s lover, and his natural kindness and friendly statements always work with getting him on his nerves more often than not.

_ More like making you feel like being in someone else’s shadow once again, isn’t it?  _ The familiar voice within him takes precious care of making a reminder, a dark chuckle following.  _ Competing for a female’s attention as you’ve been doing for so long with your twin brother. Ah, Stormrage, your stupidity never ceases to amaze me. When did you think you’d learned anything?  _

A small creak of light coming from below a door helps with cutting off the dark whispers clouding Illidan’s mind, blinking twice to so focus his attention in the current moment. His companion doesn’t seem to notice his small slip, for the matter—not like he’d ever expected him to—taking a tentative step further to grab the door handle. “Besides, now that you mention Thaedris more precisely, he’d be the last I’d pick for investigating this,” Hargo’s grim voice sounds distant for a time, but the near blinding flare of an arcane shield coming from his free hand grounds him in a definite way, carefully slipping the door open with a foot. 

The scene within makes Illidan’s heart drop to the floor, eyes widening and a croaked gasp escaping his mouth, his feet unresponding. It might be for standing right before it, but no matter how much he tries to, he just can’t stop staring at the only bed in the room, the…  _ remains _ of two naked courtesans and a noble Lady so very still over a bloody mattress. 

“I’ve been informed this was Lady Silverleaf, Thaedris’ betrothed…” Hargo adds gloomily, being the first to step inside, dropping his preventive shield after not finding any life signs around. It doesn’t take too long for his face to contort in evident shock, his composure crumbling down just like the state of the room. 

With his heart racing in apprehension, Illidan opts to walk around as carefully as he can, the  _ stench  _ of magic making his nose wrinkle, the smell quite acidic and distasteful, even to his own standards. “These women were… drained? How is this even possible?” Drops of dark blood stain a nice portion of a wall, drapes and clothes ripped to shreds all around the bedroom, the floor carpet clearly without repair. 

The sight of the deceased women, lifeless eyes staring at nowhere, brings some certain memories Illidan doesn’t look forward to reliving—at least not when he’s awake. “Husks, that’s what they are,” He’d seen this in his nightmares, but the fact of witnessing such a monstrosity and not being a product of his twisted imagination makes his stomach clench, almost wanting to puke. “By the Goddess, is this—? Oh, no, Jill...”

The petite courtesan looks even smaller as Illidan drops on his knees on the side of the bed, her almond-shaped silver eyes still soft and cute as always, her features not as horrified as the other women—considerably peaceful, not looking like having a painful demise. However, even if slightly relieved, his heart clenches at the mere idea of facing Mylenne and tell her the dire news. 

_ Then don’t do it. You know you’ll break her heart, and she’s already going through a lot.  _

Not really caring about contaminating the scene, Illidan takes mind of closing Jill’s lifeless eyes, drawing the sign of Elune on her forehead. “Find peace in the embrace of the Goddess, dear…” He whispers to her face, laying a soft kiss on the back of her bony hand before moving to stand. Yet it’s as he looks for some purchase when a soft gleam of a metallic object—definitely not Lady Silverleaf’s golden  _ Jai’sural _ , still wrapped around her neck—catches his eye, making him take a curious look under the bed.  

With two careful fingers, he finds a very elegant ring, glinting in delicate shades of blue and cerulean when Illidan brings it to the soft sunlight coming from a near window. A thoughtful frown crosses his face as he examines it, trying to figure out the signet on the upper portion, knowing it doesn’t belong to any noble House from Suramar. That is until the sound of the door slamming close takes him out of his reverie, Hargo’s face showing before him, wide-eyed. “Hand it to me,” He demands, a severe warning flashing across his golden eyes. 

Illidan doesn’t oblige right away, half stunned and half annoyed at his companion’s unexpected command, blinking in skepticism when Hargo snatches the ring from his hand in a moment’s notice. All in a sudden and before he can come up with a protest, Hargo’s palms begin glowing with magic, throwing the object to the wall as if a bomb, breaking the ring into pieces. 

Illidan’s breath hitches, shocked to the core, “What the—” 

In the course of a second, Hargo pulls him up by his vest, his stone serious face mere inches from his. “Did you ever know what that was, Illidan?” Only a warning growl escapes Illidan’s mouth, grabbing Hargo’s wrist to forcefully pull him away, although only getting him to clutch his clothes harder. “Listen carefully: That carried the signet of House Vashj, meaning one of the Vashj sisters was here,” Something close to sheer apprehension crosses his golden gaze as he stares Illidan down, if briefly, “The  _ daughters  _ of the  _ Queen _ ...” 

Princess or not, that doesn’t take away the fact they’re standing on what evidently looks like a  _ crime scene _ . How could that really matter? Or even worse, how Hargo dares warning him when having three magic drained bodies laying right beside them? “We  _ still  _ should report this,” Illidan says matter-of-factly, batting his hands away and getting on his feet properly.

“Are you out of your fucking mind!?” Illidan never took Mylenne’s lover as one for having a dirty mouth, but many things regarding Hargo’then have been surprising him on that morning, not really startling him as of then. “Not if you don’t want  _ both our heads  _ chopped off and put up on a spike, we won’t,” His tone doesn’t seem to allow a retort from Illidan’s part, not even expecting him to as he returns to pace around and about, eyes flaring in purplish blue shades as he takes care of removing any sign of his own magic tracks, casting a fleeting glance Illidan’s way to prompt him to take their leave.

Hargo brings a finger to his mouth in the universal cue of keep silent before opening the door very carefully, striding out when he doesn’t seem to see anyone else around. However, he didn’t give the impression of doing that good of a job, the unmistakable figure of Silgryn Stareye facing the two of them after the door opens fully—a very sharp look on his lilac face.

Silgryn remains still, not moving from the opposite wall of the hallway he’s leaning against, arms crossed over his bare chest and humming in apparent thought. “Looks awfully grim as it is… but not surprising,” The elder Stareye cuts off the tense silence washing over them, silver gaze glancing past Illidan’s shoulder although dropping elsewhere a moment later. “I’ve seen this before,” 

“You mean this happened before?” Illidan doesn’t particularly voice it as a question, yet he can’t peg down his growing curiosity at that point. “Where?” 

Silgryn rolls his eyes in annoyance. “Ugh. Must I say it out loud for you to get it?” Illidan doesn’t bother with replying, merely imitating his stance and holding his gaze in a slight challenging manner, “At Vashj’ir, lad. Where else?” Silgryn says matter-of-factly as he straightens a little, true to his nature and not looking intimidated in the slightest, “And Pretty’s damn right; this  _ mustn’t  _ leave this place. You can’t mess with someone like Princess Azshara.”

He’d seen that at Vashj’ir? It’s been a while since Illidan last recalls him traveling to that city, unless he’s missing something out again. What does he really know about it to be undoubtedly naming such a powerful  _ dorei  _ as Queen Lestharia’s eldest daughter as the responsible? 

For the matter, he can’t help but wonder about Silgryn’s apparent ability to hearing behind walls and that odd fact of being informed of many events suspiciously earlier than most guards, or even the most influential Highborne around the city. it may be an advantage to have allies such as the Whisperer and his network of birds, that’s for sure, but still that doesn’t get to explain the whole picture for him—at least, it makes it somewhat more difficult when Arluin’s ‘sparrows’ have been caught and slaughtered for the past few years, with the Whisperer himself escaping death by a mere inch. 

So, how does he really do it? How can a regular noble Lord such as him be prepared and even predict every possible event? How many tricks does Silgryn have under his cloak and multiple belts? And most importantly, where does Silgryn really places him and his niece in these games he plays?

If Illidan had learned anything about the elder Stareye, is that in his eyes, everyone has an important part to play in this big Game of the Court. Thing is, he’s— sadly still—anything but a lowborn, and so are half of Silgryn’s acquaintances.   

“Why did the Princesses stay in Suramar? The Grand Magistrix’ last ceremony had been months ago…” Hargo wonders as he closes the door they’ve come out from, his dark forehead creasing in thought. “Mother Moon, this is it, isn’t it?” A flash of realization crosses his soft golden eyes, casting a distressed look at Silgryn, “The pieces are already on the move,” 

“The Game’s already on,” The elder Stareye agrees in a grim tone, “Never thought I’d say this, but you’re so very right, Hargo…” Dark violet brows knit together, his face scrunching, visibly looking like contemplating many outcomes at once, eyes darting nowhere in particular before returning to Hargo once again. “You know what we must do, then,” 

Both share a solemn nod and a knowing look before getting on the move, the three of them knowing there’s no use to keep hanging around such grim scene as the one they’re leaving behind as of then. However, Illidan’s irritation grows along Silgryn and Hargo’s accomplice demeanors towards one another, “ _ Silgryn, _ ” He recalls his attention with a warning growl,  _ “ _ We’ve already discussed this,” 

Silgryn merely acknowledges him with a fleeting glance behind his shoulder, “It’s nothing, lad. This only means I’d need to get my ass on the move for the sake of my family,” Reaching the end of the hallway, he stops at the balcony close to the stairs leading down to the main floor, arms leaning against the railing, “This scene only proves that…  _ preparations  _ are in order,” 

The cryptic tone in Silgryn’s voice only works for Illidan to grow as irked as like the beginning of the morning, summoning whatever’s left of his patience to avoid having to make another reminder of how offensive it is to leave him out of the picture. “In order for what?” Illidan merely asks, prompting him to keep talking as he leans his back against the railing and beside the elder Stareye.

He regards Illidan for a moment, sighing in defeat afterwards. “For having new fresh blood among the Courts. You see, our Household can’t turn a blind eye on this,” Silgryn explains, unconsciously making Illidan suddenly come to the realization of what he’d just missed out regarding the horrific scene they’d just left behind. “Duchess Lunastre certainly won’t once she finds out,”

A thoughtful hum leaves Illidan’s mouth, lips pursing briefly as he contemplates the situation more thoroughly. Regardless of who really made it—and still having some doubts about the real responsible for such a disaster being one of the most powerful Sorceresses on the Empire like  _ Princess Azshara of House Vashj _ , no less—Silgryn is unequivocally right in his statement; for not only two random courtesans have been assassinated that morning, but also, and particularly so, a Highborne Lady and head of House Silverleaf, another vassal House of the Lunastres. 

Even if he’s still somewhat skeptical about the whole thing, Illidan is inclined to admit it clearly looks like a severe attempt against a rising Great House.  _ A clever move, let’s face it. Crippling the Lunastres from below instead of cutting off the head as everyone would expect. Whoever wants to get to Duchess Ly’leth or her family is doing a very good job.  _

However, that line of thought only helps with making Illidan’s blood turn into ice, his face paling. For if the dark voice of his conscience is right, that would also mean House Stareye may be in great danger as well—or even next in line. 

“What are you planning out to do, then?” Illidan’s eyes fix on Silgryn, a demanding tone in his voice, doing his best with focusing on his face instead of summoning a very perturbing mental image of a woman with a similar mane, perfect and delicate lavender face sucked up dry, big silver eyes looking without seeing. 

Something worrisome flashes across Silgryn’s eyes—for a brief moment, looking as if knowing exactly what’s crossing Illidan’s mind. “I only know we may be just right in the eye of the storm, but nothing further than that, lad,” Silgryn’s lips curl in a grimace, Hargo humming in deep thought beside the man, also leaning against the railing and close to the stairs leading to the main floor, “I need to make a move before my House is targeted next, and  _ fast, _ ”   

Disappointment narrows Illidan’s face right then—he hadn’t been expecting Silgryn to  _ not _ have at least a half made up plan after all—blinking thrice before following the elder Stareye’s eyes to the floor below, then empty of people. “What about Lord Desdel?” Illidan wonders out loud, resting his elbows on the railing. “Crossing him again wouldn’t be a good idea right now, if you’re somewhat right about your Household being in danger. Even less so if you’re being targeted by such a source as you’re claiming so,”  

Silgryn only sighs heavily, shoulders slumping down. “In all the possible outcomes that would turn out fair for Mylie and me… her father isn’t there.” He says somberly, somehow like a confession, something close to  _ sadness  _ narrowing his lilac face for a fleeting moment, making Illidan’s brows knit in sheer confusion. Where did that come from?

For the matter, Hargo doesn’t appear to have come up with the same pondering as him, sharing another particular look with Silgryn. “You’re talking about a Commander of the Rooksguard, Silgryn,” His companion remarks with a frown, looking partially unconvinced, “Such a figure needs to have a proper…  _ replacement _ , so to say,”

Silgryn doesn’t look like being taken aback with that observation, however—mouth curling up in a mischievous smirk, apparently holding back one of his natural cackles. “Then it’s fortunate we have Jarod, isn’t it?”

With some surprise, it’s Hargo who throws a low chuckle at that comment, slightly shaking his head in disbelief yet not speaking further of the subject, turning to take his leave from the building. Some minutes go by with Illidan and Silgryn sharing a companionable silence, the elder Stareye bringing up a pipe from one of his multiple pockets, lighting it up with a snap of his glowing fingers. As tendrils of smoke swirl around, the two  _ dorei  _ idly watch Hargo sliding the front door open and meeting Matron Scarleth outside, appearing to have been left to keep a watchful eye on the streets.

Illidan accepts Silgryn’s pipe as he offers it, taking a good and long drag, relaxing furthermore on the railing he’s leaning against. “You know, if you plan out to remove Lord Desdel off the picture for good, then count me in,” He declares, not bothering to keep his voice down while they’re the only ones around the building as of then, “I’ve been wanting to get my hands on him for a very long time, and after what we’ve both seen today, I’m taking you’re already coming up with something,” The look on Silgryn’s face oddly says otherwise as he hands the pipe back, making Illidan tilt his head in question, “... Are you?”  

“Craving for some  _ quel  _ blood, now?” His only companion left snorts disdainfully, taking a last drag from his pipe before shamelessly dropping the ashes to the floor—not looking dirtier than it already was, for the matter—with three taps of his index finger. “You may want to think like me, but don’t  _ act  _ like me, Illidan,” Silgryn says in a reproachful tone while he returns his pipe to another of his pockets, “That goes on another level of flattering and, sadly, I’m positive it’d only come out to separating that pretty head of yours from your body.” His heavy fur cloak waves elegantly as he leans away from the railing, intent on leaving, “You only need to stick with Mylie and we’ll be all good,”

Silgryn’s dismissal stuns him for a second, leaving him staring at his back while he walks away and to the stairs, indignation coursing through him once again. “Hargo isn’t even asking for it and you still try to keep  _ me  _ out?” Illidan blurts out the words before thinking about them, a nasty sneer tugging at his lips. “What is wrong with you?”

A loud cackle from Silgryn’s part echoes through the hallway. “Ha! Does that break your arcane-tainted heart so much?” He mocks, stopping midway to the stairs, “Spare me your jealousies, lad, I don’t have time—”

Illidan’s tolerance runs thin, storming in his direction and throwing a very incensed look his way. “And you can spare me your brushoffs,  _ Stareye _ . What can possibly  _ that sart  _ have that I don’t?” He all but demands to know, pulling at his cloak and forcing Silgryn to face him properly, “Are you that stupidly blind to not see you actually need me more than him?”

He couldn’t have possibly seen that coming, but as faster than the blink of an eye Silgryn grabs Illidan by the vest with both hands, slamming him against the nearest wall. “You try to lecture or question my motives once again and I swear to Elune’s tits I’ll smash that arrogance out of your face until there won’t be any need to call your brother a twin,  _ Stormrage _ .” A deep and near feral growl comes from the bottom of Silgryn’s throat, his furious face mere inches from his.

But Silgryn’s livid look doesn’t even match Illidan’s. “And how you expect me not to?” He snarls, his voice coming out weaker given he’d just been taken the air out of his lungs, “You keep talking shit about the future and sake of your family, but you still leave your niece and me out of your intended plans…” Golden eyes begin glowing menacingly, hands following as well as he prepares a spell to throw his way. “Threatens will get you nowhere,”

A stomping over his foot prevents him to cast it, however, grunting in pain. “It’s not a threat if I keep up to my word,” Silgryn snarls back, slamming him once again for good measure, “Now listen this, you big hot-headed shit, for you won’t be hearing it twice,” He keeps a tight hold on him with a lilac fist, a pissed off look that can almost be compared with one from a beast plastered all over his face, “There are dozens of reasons why, of all  _ dorei, _ I’m not throwing  _ you  _ into the Nightsaber’s den, and you don’t even know a quarter of them. Unlike your sorry ass, Hargo’then clearly knows his place, so here’s the deal: You won’t be getting anything from me until you _ fucking fall in line _ . Even so, you won’t be getting shit from anyone until you open your fucking blessed golden eyes and your fucking ears. Is that clear?”

With a heavy tension looking like cutting through the air, Illidan holds Silgryn’s gaze intensely, showing his fangs and not hiding his palpable state of outrage, his mind already coming up with many violent ways to knock him senseless. However, the elder Stareye never looks intimidated in the slightest, patting his cheek twice in a mocking manner after apparently making sure Illidan got his words, fully letting him go. 

He can’t tell how he keeps himself from just throwing Silgryn down the stairs as he turns his back to him once again, his need of punching something nearly getting the best of him. For the matter, Illidan can’t help with sending another taunt as the  _ dorei  _ saunters across the main floor. “What tells you I even want something?”

Silgryn doesn’t even bother to face him again, merely glancing past his shoulder. “Because I know what you want, you fucking  _ sart _ .  _ We all know _ .” He says through clenched teeth, readjusting one of his many belts before sliding the front door open, “You’re the blind one who can’t see you already have it from the very beginning.”

A gust of wind comes across the main floor and a moment later, Illidan is left alone in the darkness; his golden eyes then glowing in fierce shades of purplish blue as the only light among the shadows, intensely fixed on the door and about to make a hole with his gaze only. Wild arcane magic courses through him, the sound of furniture and decoration alike snapping and breaking in a dozen pieces afterwards. 

_ He will pay for his insolence. They will  _ all  _ pay... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this one was a pretty damn hard chapter to write, but to those who already knew a bit about where this part was going, yeah... wasn't lying with Edgelord Illy with this chapter, lol. It's fortunate I _adore_ when he's reaaaaally pissed off, but must admit it can get quite tiresome when it comes to writing that T_T   
>  And including this one, I'm beginning with what could be called a _pretty intense_ set of chapters, with 23, 24 and 25 intended to build up a second sort of milestone (?) I have for this book, a pretty big plot twist coming up for ch26, in which I'd have to probably split up into two parts - yeah, it's a really big one. Don't say I haven't warned you, lol! 
> 
> On another topic, I hope I could get to answer some questions regarding Azshara with this part. I don't really mind replying to each one of you, but overall, yeah, this is where I delve a little from canon - in this 'verse, Azshara and Lady Vashj are actually sisters, with Vashj's mother Lestharia as Queen in the current setting. Sure thing, this is merely an introduction, so don't worry, we'll be getting a whole lot more about Azshara and House Vashj in the future :D 
> 
> As always, my heart goes out for all of you who still keep up in this crazy rollercoaster that are Illidan and Mylie. Thanks so so _sooooo_ much for all your lovely comments and PMs and, as usual, don't ever hesitate to reach out! Even if all you have to say is a simple "Nice!" or "Your writing sucks!" or something, I always adore hearing from all of you  <3


	23. Atonement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In truth and if Silgryn must be completely sincere, _nobody_ —least of all, Mylenne and Illidan—is prepared for the rising tides that are about to come over them all. In some way, not even himself is. However, if he’s to be the only one making a real stand against the most powerful Sorceress of the Empire, then by all means, he will atone for everything he’s done and step firmly and proudly into the very eye of the storm. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Knowledge can’t fight beauty, that’s for sure. But you can rest assured, Drie, I will keep your daughter safe and sound. Even if I have to pay the ultimate price for it, the Starsurge will come to happen…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Special chapter, celebrating Starsurge turning 1 year! :D**  
>  CW for smoking, swearing and slight depressive themes.

**Darnassian:**

**Eldre’Thalas** : One of the most important Highborne cities of the Empire, next to Suramar, Vashj’ir and the capital, Elun’dris. Known as the font of knowledge and led by Prince Tortheldrin of the House of Shen’dralar, the city is famous for its Athenaeum as well as training and housing the most popular Lorekeepers around the Empire.

 **Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

 **An’da:** Father

 **Quel / Quel’dorei:** Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.

 **Arane:** A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for “nightmare/s”.

 **Kal-tora(i):** Literal: “Birth night”. (Trivia: Kaldorei celebrate birthdays every 100 years)

 **Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating. Slang: **Sart(e)**.

 **Elune-Adore:** “Elune be with you.”

* * *

**Stareye**

**3 years later**

“Seventy-three, seventy-four… oh, here's the mint I was looking for yesterday! Alright, seventy-five, sevent—nope, that's just my lucky token. Hey, no touching!” A hissing sound follows as Keelay’s curious hand is batted away, the faintly glowing object returning inside another safer pocket as fast as the blink of an eye, “You're just lucky to be my friend, otherwise I'd be calling you out as a fucking bastard right about now. A full stash of golds for your Cider? From where did these Nightpears come from anyway? Bloody Eldre’Thalas?”

Moongrow’s gaze slips off the delicate golden shard he just saved fairly easily. “Well, that’s close enough, actually,” Nodding in admission, the merchant doesn't seem satisfied, however, leaning on a hip and giving him another once over, “You can't be expecting any less after rushing my workers over from across the fucking Empire in the middle of a fertility season. Fair is fair,”

An elegant brow quirks up in slight amusement. “Those bottles had Margeaux' signature, buddy. Can't go guilt-tripping me there…” An accusatory long index finger points at Moongrow’s face, however, it only gets him to snort in dismissal.

“The very same who left her mate and spent a straight full moon working to fill up your bar stashes… _again._ ”

“Ha! It’s not like—wait, what did you just say? Margeaux is _bonded_ ?” The merchant’s lips purse in an evident attempt to keep a cackle to himself. “With a _man_ ? Like, a real _dorei?”_

Eventually, it seems Moongrow can’t help it, chortling at the flabbergasted look on his face. “That was two Embraces ago, Sil,” He says matter-of-factly, wiping some tears of laughter with the hem of his sleeve, “It's sad you missed the party. Not like I can remember any of it, though, but can tell it was a blast,”

Silgryn doesn’t startle when one of his many friends comes from behind and slides an arm over his shoulder, although either faces him right away, momentarily lost in his thoughts as he does his best to recall the special date. Where had he been a thousand years ago? _Has to be Azsuna, most likely. Wasting my time with that Oracle bitch…_

“Poor Keelay was found by Vanthir under the vines the day after… half naked,” Oculeth elaborates, a knowing smile plastered all over his face, “Bonding ceremony of the decade, indeed. What happened with those shoes of yours, by the way?” He wonders, leaning a bit on him and crossing his feet in a casual stance.

“Beyond repair. Those were my good old _An’da’s_ boots,” Moongrow pouts, rubbing a hand over his greenish stubble, “Turns out, Nightwine not only messes with your head. Let me advise you against jumping on a vat fully clothed,” The three of them share a good cackle as the merchant takes care of packing up his profits, “Never tried courting a vintner again. Totally not worth it, I tell you,”

Not without having a brief mental picture of his trusted merchant making an embarrassing show of himself, their chit chat drifts to the aftermath of the recently finished season of life and fertility. Work and business had been flowing pretty nice overall and from Moongrow’s opinion, so SIlgryn never bothers to begin arranging more contracts for his friend, preferring to save some extra jobs for his buddies whenever the waters calm down once again—or get bored and start pestering him a little bit too much, whatever comes first.

The night is young so far, although Baldy comes to be the first to drift off and wave farewell for the moment, excusing himself with one of his recent investigations he’s been involving on with a bunch of Arcanists he—even if Silgryn still doesn’t understand quite well to what extent—has shown to be kind of annoyingly fond of. A big project regarding portals… something, something… a sort of network teleportation… something, something. Not like he minds to recall all the particular details when it’s most obvious it’ll take its good couple of Embraces to make a real breakthrough on whatever Oculeth is in.

_Should keep an eye on him regardless. Bah, but who am I lying to? Baldy can take good care of himself and probably better than a lot of us._

Rak’shakar purrs softly when his bald friend rubs her furry cheek in farewell, yet she doesn’t trouble with moving from the oak tree she’s so languidly resting under—and surely won’t under any circumstances unless her owner signals her so—cracking a yellowish eye open briefly in acknowledgment before closing it again. The peaceful image of his beast prompts Silgryn to indulge himself with some more minutes of laziness, bringing up his pipe and relaxing in the company of his good merchant friend.

Keelay chuckles a little at his eccentricities, yet doesn’t apparently look up to brushing him off, even following with opening a bottle of Cider he’s known to save for himself and share only with close acquaintances. “So, how’s the kiddo?” Moongrow leans forward on his merchant stall after exchanging the pipe for a small shot of his drink, elbows on the table, “I take it she must be pretty busy if you’re so at ease and vegging out with me, of all your oh so popular friends,”

_Indeed. And busy means safe._

“Bah, spare me that show of underestimating yourself with me, buddy. Can’t I just enjoy your company and bask in this lovely autumn night we’re having?” His half lie slips out with practiced ease, silver eyes gleaming briefly in some amusement. Not like he enjoys lying to his friends, for it's the complete opposite, but damn right Moongrow doesn't have the absolute need of knowing all the plans and possible outcomes crossing Silgryn’s mind—it’s always safer that way. “She’s quite fine, actually. Vanthir hired her as a waitress last year, that’s keeping her on her toes more than I’d have thought,” Another partial lie, but who's accounting for that?   

“Yeah, right. And I'm a fucking _quel_ . Who else set up that job for the kiddo if not you, Sil?” Moongrow's huffing interrupts his constant running mind, a dark violet brow quirking up in slight surprise. _Oh, right, he must've seen her bringing up the carts before the party._ “You seem so up in the clouds all the time, sometimes I'm afraid how hard the fall will be,” Pouring another shot of Cider, he hands the glass along with Silgryn's then empty pipe, a moment of silence falling over them, “I won't ask what's going on, buddy, but I could see from miles away how much tension you seem to be carrying lately. Mylie and your partner also noticed that, mind you…”

Silgryn gulps his drink in a single motion, growing hyper aware of his own reactions. “Aaw, you guys are worried about me? How sweet of you,” He jests after swallowing, a sly smirk crossing his lips as he leans on his side, all nonchalant, “It’s all good, these seasons always get on my nerves. You know me, I'm not the settling up and bonding type of guy. And then there are all these parties to prepare and host and—”

“ _Silgryn_ ,” A big index finger rising up works in stopping his pointless ramble, making him feel partially grateful for doing so. “I only charge for my goods. As for the rest, you just need to tell me,”

When their eyes meet, it takes a mere blink for Keelay to slip off his known mask of merchant, the innocent yet dutiful look of a sparrow presenting before him. Silgryn can't help but grow wary for a spare moment, not sure how much he can— _should—_ push or even really tell his friend… how much of _absolutely everything_ would fell on him if he does so. It’s always a strained fight, for the matter.

It's fairly easy for him to understand how the price of knowledge can cost their heads but to nameless, lowborn _dorei_ like Moongrow… they just don't seem to _care_ about it. Why they just don't turn away and crawl to the humble house in the woods they came from? Why they just don't leave complicated matters to people who genuinely care about them?

Curiosity kills the cat, that's for sure—and he'd seen this as clear as a full Moon with the ever impatient Sulky—but then again, how can these people risk so much for so little?  

_Oh, Drie. How much haven't you told me? What's the real cost for those of us who were left in the realm of the living?_

When his friend leans closer, a certain hesitance runs within him. His walls don't crumble down, however, but Silgryn's sure Keelay would be able to see through him if looking straight into his eyes—his heart beating at the same speed as his racing thoughts. _What's the cost? What's the real cost?_

“... Is there something you need me for, Wanderer?”

The mention of his title makes something click softly, realization flashing on his gaze for a fleeting moment. Of course, that’s _why_ —they haven’t seen what he’s seen, can’t probably imagine what’s about to come over them all. Even himself sometimes laughs it off in the middle of his tell tales, fully aware how near impossible some of his stories are to truly believe. And yet, ignorance still keeps being a blessing.

_He felt her exhausted stare over the crown of his head, a golden glint matching the flames of the candle lights from their Manor, but didn’t interrupt his lecture to stare back. “Power not only relies on beauty, dear brother. It also can be found in knowledge.” He found that ironic coming from her mouth, mostly when all she’d been doing for the last hour has been watching her figure in the mirror, fixing every wrinkle that may be giving her sickened state away. “However, you must keep in mind all paths lead to the same road. The price for it is always high...”_

_Snorting softly, he switched to the next page, once more removing a curl of dark-violet hair getting in the way. He thought again about finally getting a haircut—his hair had been growing as rebel as their_ An’da _, mostly since reaching adulthood—but there always were more important matters to take care about than petty fashion. “Guess it’s late to discuss that, Drie. If there’s a price to pay for stopping the nightmares, I’ll gladly take it.”_

_Her palm rested on the top of the page he was just reading—wrinkled, lilac and unlike the natural lavender of her skin—prompting his attention to her. He couldn’t help to wonder about how to explain the splotches and the purple lines of her veins, how to word properly the physical signs the arcane corruption was leaving on her once pristine figure._

_He’d found in his travelings to the borders of the Empire the kaldorei hadn’t been the only race populating the land as he was told in school; definitely not the first ones the Goddess brought to the world, but most likely the last_ _that will endure until the end of life itself. Also contrasting to them, he’d learned the other races grew up, aged and passed away. They became_ old.

 _And his sister looked like some of them._ Dorei _didn’t age, but she looked_ old _._

_“Look at me, brother: Whatever good remains of me, it does not rely here, but only on my daughter,”  The elegance and steady flow of her speech was a blatant proof of how hard she was grasping onto whatever was left of her mental sanity—on the outside, worn and battered, but still struggling on the inside. “Please, you must take Mylenne away from me, spare the withered crops from the good ones. Bring her to Eldre’Thalas and forget about—”_

_No. Definitely not. “_ Arane, _no, Aedriel, stop that!” His book fell to the ground and made a hard noise, but he didn’t care anymore, holding onto her shoulders, shaking her slightly.“I won’t stop until I find a cure! I_ **_will_ ** _save you!”_

A gust of wind goes by and toys with his—still thousands of years later—rebel dark-violet curls, its soft whispers bringing him back to the present and brushing the memory away as if dust, although not the entirety of his thoughts. In the end, he couldn’t save his own sister, and that sounds like enough to just give up on everything and get on the run once again; fate, tales, legends, destiny, all be damned.

Silgryn’s shoulders slump down, an exhausted sigh leaving his lips as his hand brushes the glowing shard hidden in one of his multiple pockets—an act of reflex that’d been becoming more of a habit as of late, ever since he found it. Too many lives are at stake to even ponder about stopping playing the game, and even so, it’s not like he can turn away when the music has already started, isn’t it?     

Turning to Moongrow, he nods sternly, glancing at the quiet road leading to the outskirts of Suramar City. “The tides are about to be turned. Keep an eye for rooks.” Laying a heavy hand on his shoulder, he stares the merchant straight in the eye, “And whistle the Whisperer for any need whatsoever,”

* * *

He knows he shouldn’t bring Aedriel’s soul shard with him at all times, even more so when the damn thing had already been whispering to him in his sleep—or that’s what Arluin had assumed and told him so the couple of times he’d found him sweating, thrashing in their bed and mumbling nonsense in the middle of the day—but still seems safer than to hide it elsewhere. Centuries of nightmares and twisted visions from the Azure Dream, enduring both his and his sister’s dreams, have helped in a certain way with keeping them in track; an experience he despises as much as in some way appreciates as well. And everyone in Silgryn’s close circle wholeheartedly agrees it could be worst if Mylie or the ever so nosy Sulky would have the chance of laying their hands on the shard anyways.  

 _Ah, the things I do for love. I should get an award for the biggest_ sart _in history._  

However, regarding proper whispers, Silgryn finds himself quite surprised and partially relieved for the lack of further news as he rides through the streets of Suramar, running his errands without any trouble. No birds missing for the year as well as no new songs coming either from Vashj’ir, Azsuna or Elun'dris, which is suspicious as its best or deeply worrying as its worst, whatever one wants to look at it. For the matter, as much as he wishes to travel to see and hear for himself, he’s aware he’s bound to stay in his hometown for the time being, even more so with Mylie’s _kal-tora_ right around the corner.

Funnily so, or as he’d just summoned his niece’s buddies when thinking about her, it’s as he oversees the nearly finished construction of the new harbor when a streak of a familiar cobalt catches Silgryn’s eye. An open smile crosses his face as he shifts to say hello to Mylie’s lover, although then his eye twitches briefly when instead his gaze finds another _dorei_ he didn’t expect to see right there, forcing him to keep that smile on his lips, if only to appeal to his good manners.

Sulky waves at him with a soft smile, “Hey, there. I was just on my way to the bar,” He slows his near bouncing pace, hands in the pockets of that fancy Spellcaster robe he’s grown to wear and show off everywhere— _at least he keeps it informal and has the decency of wearing pants instead of those funny kilts_ —looking shockingly nonchalant. “You coming? Or still working on… whatever it is you do?”

His chivalrous demeanor sets Silgryn off, not at all used to seeing him _smiling_ , very much less so at him. Or worse, not even questioning him in the slightest. _Well, well, quite smug for his sulkier manner._ “Nah, may have to catch you up later,” Silgryn’s quick in recovering, however, tempted to test the waters even further as he unlatches a bag from his saddle, “Although… would you be a good lad and bring this to Vanthir in the meantime?”

“Sure!” He even catches the goods mid air, sauntering off without a single complaint, which makes Silgryn's mental jaw drop to the ground, unable to do anything but watch his purple cloak wave as he goes. He doesn't spend too much of his precious time pondering what's got into Sulky, though; he knows he'll figure it out in due time and if needs be, he just barely needs to share a word or two with Luin to find out.

_Has he dumped that pretty Priestess he was banging, perhaps? Bah, surely not, the big coward. Although something really looks amiss in here…_

The Sun isn't yet to rise before he can't find any more reasons to be wandering around, picking up the—not anymore, though, after _that haunting_ incident some years back—courtesan, Verene, before making their way to the bar as he'd promised a month ago. The woman had been doing fairly nice his last party as she kept up with every drunk _dorei_ who'd stuck in her way, and it's not like anything could go wrong with one more waitress to help up Vanthir, or when Mylie opts out to disappear with her pals and forget about her new duties as she'd grown used to do it. Regardless, Silgryn knows a way or two to convince his bartender friend to accept another woman under his wing.

An idle chatter and the regular sound of what could only be from Mylie’s buddies having a rehearsal are what finds them after reaching the bar, Silgryn signaling the petite woman the way to the entrance as he rides slightly far away, dismounting off Rak’shakar close to her usual resting spot. As he takes care of removing her heavy saddle, his eyes catch almost the entirety of his niece’s group gathered inside while Verene opens the bar’s doors. Sulky is already inside with his pals from the Moon Guard, the ever so merry Slender and the devious—in a good way, or at least in a better way than himself or his lover—Cleavage sharing some heated and shameless looks as so very usual.

Even Mylie’s friends from the Temple have appeared to be off shift, Sister Thania—or Little Moon as he’s fond of calling the tiny Priestess—with the remarkable patience that characterizes her, tuning her harp with the help of Sister Shalasyr and even the Shadowsong siblings, appearing to finally have some time off work to get together. The view of the elder Shadowsong and then Sentinel looking _quite purposefully_ seated very far away from the Sorcerers around sends Silgryn chuckling internally; a typical attitude that all but screams _Maiev_ just as much as her permanent frown and lack of a genuine smile whenever his niece or her young brother isn’t around.

Surprisingly so, everyone seems to be inside having a good time, but one—first catching the near acrid smell of arcane magic coming from the backyard before his silver gaze captures the familiar streak of cobalt, a pair of leather boots engraved with the Moon Guard logo giving the young Officer away. Not without an odd hesitance, Silgryn approaches the boy, trying to figure out a fair reason why he’s alone in the open and not just elsewhere. Some wholehearted laughs coming from inside the bar kind of set Silgryn off as well. _Maybe he just didn’t bother to come inside, but still…_

Pretty Boy doesn’t face his way when Silgryn reaches his spot, looking too sullen even for his own liking, seemingly entranced with a pretty tiny golden bird bouncing on the bare grass as he sends a sparkly wave of magic their way. “Why that puppy face, boy?” Silgryn can’t help but voice out his wondering, leaning against the wall and giving the lad some personal space.

At first, Pretty just shrugs nonchalantly, but it’s as Silgryn notices a fleeting frown of his cobalt brows when he realizes the boy might be a tad bit troubled to speak his mind. “Probably because I am being selfish when I’m fully aware I shouldn’t be,” The boy’s golden gaze glances at him through his periphery, yet quite briefly before setting it again on the little animal chirping happily. As another wave of familiar laughter slips away from the window Silgryn’s leaning besides, Pretty winces a bit, although does his best to hide it. “I know I’m losing her but… how can I be upset over losing something I never had in the first place?”    

Silgryn snorts in dismissal, crossing his arms over his bare chest, “That’s not true. You had her, and still do,” His scolding comes out rather harsher than he’d like, shaking his head so to not be that rough on the gloomy boy.   

The heaviest of sighs rolls off Pretty’s mouth before facing him properly, “No, I never did. I knew this from the start as much as I knew I probably never will,” A dejected gleam flashes across his appealing golden eyes, rolling his shoulders while calling off his fancy magic in an exhausted manner, “I just… I don’t know. I thought knowing that wouldn’t bring me to be feeling how I am right now. It appears I was mistaken,”

For a moment it’s concerning, for in some way, Silgryn can’t bring himself to feeling sorry for the boy. Surely because he had been in his place, had felt how he’s feeling too many times over—and how wouldn’t he? He’s close to twenty-five centuries ahead of the lad. _How’s the word? Ah, yes: I’m_ older. “No matter how much you try, sometimes it’s impossible to rule over your heart’s wishes, boy,”

The young Officer chuckles softly, although the sound comes out close to a wheeze, almost as if he doesn’t have the strength to laugh it off. “Oh, well. That’s what love does, right?” His golden gaze slips off to the horizon before them, appearing to be lost in thought—yet in some way thankfully so, for even himself doesn’t have a fitting answer to that pondering.

A much needed and companionable silence falls over them, basking in the upcoming dawn as Silgryn mindlessly glances across the window, true to his nature of checking up on everybody even when in the middle of something. In one corner of the bar, his eyes lay on Sulky and his niece on a lonely table, the former behind Mylie and brushing her long violet mane with all the easiness in the world, almost appearing oddly _therapeutic_ for the lad—merely judging by the softening of his features—a relaxing smile narrowing both their faces.

She should be paying more attention to her downcast lover instead of the _dorei_ that always so obviously catches her eye whenever he’s around; and yet so, who really is he to state whatever Mylie should be doing or not? No, Silgryn knows better than to interfere in love affairs—and even if the opportunity presents itself for doing so, he’s positive he wouldn’t take it regardless, for he’s conscious what’s _inevitably bound_ to happen anyways.

_The price of knowledge just appears to be shutting the fuck up and let others mill about in their ignorance. Ah, that crazy thing called love… thank Elune I have Arluin._

Although somehow as him and Pretty share a moment together, he can feel the boy kind of reaching his ending point. Something… _finite_ in the air around them. “Do you have any regrets?” It’s all Silgryn asks to him, no need to running around the subject the boy so blatantly seems to be trying to figure out.

“No, I won’t ever regret loving her. I don’t regret anything, for that matter.” He says clearly and without hesitation, a gleam of something hardening his gaze for a spare moment before going soft and like the lad Silgryn’s grown to know. “We had a big argument the last morning. I just… _hoped_ for a little more time, you know,” From the ground, he sends Silgryn a forced smile, “That’s what I did wrong, perhaps: I _hoped_ to have someone I knew from the very start I’d _never_ happen,”

The mere comment prompts Silgryn along to reach out to the boy, placing a steady hand on his shoulder, “You’re a good boy, Hargo. A damn fine boy, with a heart of gold,” The soft smile that narrowed his face earlier in the night shows up once again, this time to the one he actually meant to send, “You shouldn’t be thinking you’ll be losing her. I honestly don’t believe you ever will be,” A slight tug brings the boy to meet Silgryn’s face properly, the former listening intently, “You’ve been there for her when no one was, not even me. And it’s pretty obvious to see Mylie always loved you, even when she didn’t in the way you do,”

It’s as Hargo rises from the ground and imitates his stance when something appears to shift in his golden gaze, the previous downcast gleam in his eyes switching to something more… suspicious—or that’s what Silgryn could guess as the boy casts a fleeting glance at the window. Following his gaze, Silgryn notices Hargo not particularly staring at his niece’s back, but the Sorcerer joining her on her way to the bar.

“You always knew, isn’t it, Silgryn?” He can’t help but blink twice at the young lad, momentarily taken aback by the sudden question, the boy almost appearing to be speaking to himself, nearly mouthing the words. _Almost_ , meeting Silgryn’s eyes a minute later when he doesn’t get an answer. “About the two of them,”

Silgryn tries very hard for his face to not show anything, growing just as hesitant as he’d been earlier with Moongrow at the merchant’s road. Yet so, even himself is reaching the ending point of keeping some kind of stupid secrecy. “Will my blatant truth hurt you?” He opts out for honesty, getting a mere shaking of the lad’s head as a reply, “Then yes, I always knew. To this point, I’ve even grown to believe they’re _meant_ to be together…”

Hargo cocks his head, “How so?”

He can’t help with sighing tiredly. How to even start? “I’ve seen uncountable things in my adventures, boy; mythical creatures rising from the ground, seas being ripped apart before my very eyes. I’ve seen the night becoming day within the course of a second, lived both dreams and nightmares, walked upon different realms, seen the face of both sanity and madness incarnate,” He does his best not to falter and cackle when Hargo’s eyes begin widening in awe—or shock, most likely—his face straight and stoic, meaning every word he’s saying. “And even with that, being a spectator to the obvious hand of the Goddess bringing those two together… that’s a marvel like I have ever seen in my entire _life_ ,”

A long moment goes by with the young Officer just staring at him, seemingly unable to find proper words. “… And here I thought most of your tales were pure lies and bluffing,” He ends up half snorting, rubbing the back of his head, “But if you knew about her fate from the start, that means…” Suspicion narrows his gaze once again, “You haven’t come back to Suramar for your niece,” Hargo’s accurate assumption cracks up a small smirk on Silgryn’s mouth, giving him away, “Why haven’t you told her that? If I may ask, that is.”

In some way, Silgryn gets more relief to rely all that on the young boy rather than somebody else, not as hesitant as before. Of all _dorei_ his niece is acquainted, he has the feeling only Hargo’then and maybe the eldest of the Starweave sisters would really get what he’s been working on all these last years—they’re clearly the only two who appear to know their way around the real dangers of the Game. “I’d hoped she would join in my… _crusade_ , for a time. But she’s been clearly unwilling to stand for what’s rightfully hers. And clock’s ticking…”

Hargo faces him fully, leaning against the wall and virtually imitating his stance, “I can practically see the wheels turning on your head, Silgryn. I’m listening,” He opens his mouth to blurt out one of his many excuses but an accusatory index finger prevents him from doing so. “And before you start, I’m quite aware of where I stand, believe me. Take this as my last favor for the woman I love, perhaps?”

A wholehearted laugh escapes Silgryn right then, unable to help it, “Now you’re getting to my own heart, boy…” He says in a half mocking, half flirting tone, before getting serious once again, silver eyes softening. “You’re a very fine lad, Hargo. I’m sure you’ll find someone who will love you back just as pure and genuinely as you clearly deserve,”

_And that’s probably the most truthful thing I’ve ever said in months…_

“ _Elune-Adore,”_ The boy makes a show of praying to the Goddess before straightening up, not so sullen and gloomy anymore. “So, let me fetch some ales and you can start from the beginning,”

As he watches the boy go, Silgryn takes the spot he’d just left, wondering for a fleeting moment from _where_ he should start… if he should start _at all_. In all honesty, he’s positive someone else besides him and Arluin must know what’s about to come over them all, and the Game is just too big to just turn their backs on it as of then. Pondering over it, a new skillful ally such as Hargo actually seems like the best course of action—perhaps, the wisest way.

In truth and if Silgryn must be completely sincere, _nobody_ —least of all, Mylenne and Illidan—is prepared for the rising tides that are about to come over them all. In some way, not even himself is. However, if he’s to be the only one making a real stand against the most powerful Sorceress of the Empire, then by all means, he will atone for everything he’s done and step firmly and proudly into the very eye of the storm.

_Knowledge can’t fight beauty, that’s for sure. But you can rest assured, Drie, I will keep your daughter safe and sound. Even if I have to pay the ultimate price for it, the Starsurge will come to happen…_

* * *

**3 months later**

The nicest thing with making a friend’s bar some sort of constant—and remarkably close to permanent within each night passing—location for spending the nights and days isn’t really for Vanthir’s neat storage of finest wines and fanciest ales Suramar could offer. Sure thing, the bartender’s meals and drinks still keep being close to the top of the list, but the nicest thing from ‘living’ in The Thirsty Magister are the _mornings_ .   
  
The quiet hours that come after the Moon comes to rest are actually what Silgryn treasures the most. More precisely, those moments when the bar quickly empties from unknown newcomers and customers as the day arrives, leaving only his and his niece’s known friends and acquaintances as the only occupants. It’s a wonder from which he still keeps questioning and pondering about from time to time, how Mylenne and he have managed to gather so many different _dorei_ and created that odd group—or band of misfits, so to say—he dearly likes to think of as a _family_ .     
  
That particular morning had been so far one of the best Silgryn had in weeks, the monotony of it all settling in and easing his constant racing mind, a funny snort inevitably leaving his mouth as he glances around the hall, half of his lilac face hidden behind his set of cards.   
  
To his surprise and as he drops a fine set of Dukes on the table for the players to see, Silgryn finds Sulky quite at ease, only shrugging after losing for a fourth time yet still looking up for another round. “My, my… Not tired yet of losing your gold, lad?” He can’t help but wonder, passing the cards to his lover as his turn comes for sorting another deck. “Can’t complain, though. This is looking forward to being a lovely morning to earn more juicy coins!”   
  
Close to the stage, he spares a look at the ever merry Slender, rehearsing a silly song with Little Moon and Baldy—the last one probably too eager to participate in whatever could involve an experiment, even if that involves music instruments rather than magics and telemancy.   
  
“A shame your… _mistress_ isn’t here to play with us,” Arluin smirks slyly, making a small show of mixing and sorting the cards with practiced ease as he gives Sulky a funny look, “It’d have been nice to win some blessed gold for a change. You’ll never hear me complain about getting a couple of lucky tokens for the ride,”   
  
“How would you if you’re always winning?” The lad snorts, his permanent cobalt frown finally making their regular appearance, tapping his dark fingers on the table in an impatient manner. “And mind you, Sylenna’s _not my mistress_ . Keep that nonsense to yourself,”   
  
Silgryn lets out a funny cackle, “Ooooh, beware, everyone! Sulky’s about to get sulkier!” He laughs as he saves the gold he earned from the previous game, exaggeratedly shaking his hands in a pretense to be terrified.   
  
The only woman gathering in the table intervenes, “Well, cute Lid here has a reputation to maintain,” Cleavage—that name sounds better in his head than a boring _Lady Starweave_ —explains with one of her charming smirks, patting her friend’s shoulder rather mockingly, “He’s famous to put the rage in _Stormrage_ after all,” The Sorceress adds, instantly making everyone in the table but Sulky to nearly explode in a fit of laughter.   
  
Wiping out some tears from laughing too much, Silgryn gets a sudden feeling of something—or someone—amiss. However, he doesn’t ponder about it for long, the opportunity of keep molesting the young lad being too good to just let it pass. “Where’s your mistress, though? Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen those cute puppy eyes of hers,” He admits, sipping on his ale and not bothering to look at his new set of cards just yet.   
  
The lad neither bothers to spare a look at him, however. “Don’t know, don’t care,” He deadpans, fixing his golden eyes on his cards as if he hadn’t said anything relevant. “Mmh, I’m feeling lucky for this one. Your bets, ladies and Arluin?” It’s after nobody reacts at his silly joke when Sulky glances at his friend, seated beside him, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”   
  
“… You broke up with Sylenna, aren’t you?” Cleavage says in a scornful tone, navy mane falling down her shoulders as she leans back in her seat, giving her friend a knowing look. As Sulky doesn’t seem interested in replying, Arluin’s smirk turns into a full grin at the statement, their previous mirth quickly switching into a collective groan, “Damn you, Stormrage! Couldn’t you just wait one more month? Just one, _one!_ ”   
  
With a tired sigh, Silgryn is forced to search his pockets for more coins, shaking his head in disappointment as he gives some silvers onto his lover’s grabby hands. Cleavage reaches for her… cleavage, reluctantly doing the same. “Should have known you knew about this all along before even placing the bets, you devious _dorei_ ,” Silgryn grumbles, sending an offended glare at Arluin as he keeps grinning in sheer satisfaction, kicking his leg under the table in an attempt to wipe that smug smile for good measure.   
  
The lad just rolls his eyes and huffs in disapproval, yet he doesn’t comment further, definitely more interested in keep playing rather than maintaining that line of conversation. Eventually, the group returns their attention to the card game, the musicians at the opposite corner of the hall settling into a chill rhythm, Little Moon’s sweet voice doing wonders with easing everyone’s particular moods.   
  
Everyone but Mylie, so it seems, her uncle only able to judge by the exasperating look on her face—wearing a nasty frown he’d relate to the young lad currently playing cards with rather than with his niece, lips pursed tightly as if keeping herself from nearly snapping at Pretty Boy standing next to her.   
  
As she appears to be arguing with her lover, it comes to be a repetitive sight for Silgryn rather lately. However, nobody else seems to be paying attention to them or worrying in the slightest except him and Vanthir, furtively glancing from behind his bar, pretending to be focused on cleaning some empty mugs. Unluckily and no matter how much he tries, Silgryn can’t really listen what they’re arguing about, and yet the view is just enough to notice how worked up Mylie looks like, figuring out—knowing her as much as he does—it’s surely about to get worse if Pretty Boy keeps that usual _annoyingly passive_ attitude of his.   
  
Silgryn succeeds in keeping a cool face as it comes to be his turn to play a card, glancing through the corner of his eye at the boy’s clumsy ways to soothe her moods. He holds back a disapproving click of his tongue as Mylie’s lover places a kiss on her forehead, his magic flicking to life ever so slightly, unconsciously as always.   
  
_Oh, boy… When these young lads are ever going to learn to keep their magic to themselves, I wonder?_   
  
With much-practiced subtlety, Arluin pats his knee under the table as a signal to make his move, his lover always true to his awareness of where his main priorities lay upon. Both share a brief look, Arluin not bothering to keep his gaze much longer as his turn to play comes, fingers who before were lazily tapping the table then stretching, making an idle count. One… two… three…   
  
The shadow of a female figure looms over the table. “Let me get your mugs,” Mylie grumbles at the group, looking to be placing as much distance as she can from Pretty, not really waiting for a reply as she gets on grabbing their empty drinks. “Two more ales for you and Nightwine for Syrana, then. Cider for you, Lid?” She keeps it brief, pretty much eager to get on her way to the bar.   
  
“I’m fine with whatever’s closest,” Sulky says nonchalantly, picking Silgryn’s curiosity when he doesn’t even take a furtive glance at his niece as she ties her long hair hastily, his golden eyes utterly fixed on his cards. Forcibly, he’d say, judging by the ever so brief grit of his teeth and slight clench of his jaw, the gesture nearly going unnoticed.   
  
_Huh, well, that’s odd_ , Silgryn ponders to himself, idly wondering what could be going through the lad’s head to be holding back his opinions in such a way. Before a wanderer, he’s a sharp observer, and Silgryn never missed the lingering looks Sulky always gave to his niece—his face nearly an open book, incapable of hiding what's on his mind, very much less so when it regards Mylie.   
  
Quickly going through the facts, there are two possible assumptions that could explain his strange behavior. The first one relates to his then confirmed break up with the Priestess, and it wouldn’t be surprising to anyone if the lad were just more frustrated and sulkier than usual. After all, Sulky is way too predictable for Silgryn’s eyes, and he knows the lad wouldn’t do something like that just out of boredom or because it suddenly doesn’t suit his interests.   
  
No, if Silgryn had to point out one of Illidan Stormrage’s most notable facts, is that he never takes action on anything without having a very particular reason to do so, and that’s something he pretty much relates with. And the most obvious explanation for his sudden break up is because he wants to make a move on his niece… _again_ .     
  
Thinking of which, there’s the second—and definitely more problematic—assumption, that being with the lad returning to dreaming with Mylie once more, an uncomfortable sense of worry pooling around Silgryn’s gut at the mere thought. Regardless of never ever mentioning the subject, he’d be stupid to not recognize that particular haunting look in his golden eyes flickering briefly from time to time; the same he wore himself centuries back and has seen plastered on his sister’s eyes for too many years.

His rather _special_ —because he doesn’t have another way to word it—bond and connection with Mylie makes it blatantly obvious Sulky had probably been experiencing his niece’s dreams at least once as of late. Or that’s what Silgryn can judge by the way how the lad averts his gaze from Mylie’s violet mane everyone in the group has grown aware how much it always catches the lad’s eye.    

 _Perhaps it may be safe to poke him a bit to speak about it; it’s already troubling how much the lad had endured without asking for help._   
  
Sulky’s concerning impassiveness doesn’t last for long as Mylie returns to their table with refilled mugs for all, grumbling some nonsense under her breath. Right when Arluin plays a neat set of Magisters and Cleavage groans in frustration, the musicians at the stage settle for a more merry rhythm. However, the music isn’t loud enough for Silgryn to not miss Sulky’s slight growl as Mylie’s lover approaches, apparently looking forward to redoubling his efforts into making amends with her, gently pulling her to the dance floor.   
  
“ _Tell me what you really like, surfas I can take my time. We don’t ever have to fight, just take it step-by-step,_ ” Slender begins singing, looking more pleased with the sounds he prompts out of his guitar rather than with his chant, nearly appearing to be making up some words as he goes. His companions join with glee, their faces delighted as they all settle into the easy rhythm.   
  
Silgryn just sighs in sheer content, relaxing in his seat and idly sipping his ale, enjoying the view just as much as Arluin, although doing his best with not laughing at the awful show Pretty Boy displays for everyone to see. “Well, at least he's trying, right?” Arluin chuckles, biting his lower lip and leaning an arm over Silgryn’s shoulder, “I almost feel sorry for him, though. What’s he doing with his arms?”   
  
“Eh, I’m rather sorry for Mylie,” He can’t help with snickering, dropping his useless cards and sending his coins to join on his lover’s pile, “But consider me utterly entertained…”   
  
“ _You've been scared of love and what it did to you. You don't have to run, I know what you've been through,_ ” No one in the bar—even Vanthir, still languidly rubbing and cleaning his mugs with a dirty cotton rag—seems able to keep their amusement to themselves, a mocking chorus of low chuckles and giggles joining the music as Pretty insists with his clumsy dancing. “ _Just a simple touch and it can set you free. We don't have to rush when you're alone with me,_ ”   
  
It was publicly known for the young Officer to be quite apprehensive when it came to his dancing skills, usually having Mylie and Cleavage teaching him from time to time, with all the patience women like them can muster. And it had been a no small effort if someone asked Silgryn; for no matter how appealing and talented in magic the boy could be, if there’s something he never could really master, it’s the ability to dance properly.   
  
His ridiculous show doesn’t help with his niece’s sour moods, her face scrunching as if mortified in no time, her patience and tolerance visibly wavering. Sulky neither appears pleased in the slightest, true to his usual temper as he gulps his strong Cider, doing his best with not staring at the couple—nearly about to make a hole on the table if he keeps fixing his eyes on it that much.   
  
_At this point, I can’t tell if that’s just empathy or those two managing to get really moody at the same time…_   
  
Silgryn forces himself to file that interesting thought for later, sending a sly smirk at his niece when she returns to the table for the third time. “Whatever it is, it’s not funny,” Mylie deadpans, stealing the mug of ale he’d been nursing from his hands, emptying it with two long gulps. _Ah, that was just rude…_

From his seat, he can glance at Pretty sending a downcast look to Mylie’s back before taking his leave, definitely not up for trying a third time. It’s not like nobody cares if the boy stays or goes, but more like no one feels up to intervene, no words spoken as Hargo’then grabs his coat and strides out of the bar—having the decency of not slamming the door close as he disappears.  
  
Slender and Little Moon don’t bother with stopping either way. “ _You don't need a lonely night, surfas, I can make it right. You just have to let me try to give you what you want,_ ” Probably in attempts to keep a merry mood, the cute little Priestess takes more effort with the tunes she prompts out of her harp, tapping her feet along with the rhythm for good measure.   
  
Mylie then sighs heavily and tiredly, shoulders dropping as she too opts to take her leave for the morning. However, his niece doesn’t get that far away before a hand snatches her wrist midway, one of Silgryn’s violet brows instantly quirking up in sheer curiosity. “That’s what you get when you grab the wrong partner,” Sulky begins, impassive, his face showing nothing except that intense golden gaze he always carries when his eyes lay upon her.   
  
Cleavage pretends to be deeply interested in her sharp nails while Arluin takes advantage of their distraction to grab all the money spread on the table for himself, although Silgryn doesn’t bother to look away—not an ounce of shame in his features as he leans further back in his seat and just stares. “Oh, and you think you’re the right one?” Mylie snorts, holding Sulky’s gaze in a rather challenging manner.   
  
They share a hard look for the longest of moments, silver against golden, and if looks could kill, Silgryn’s sure they’d both be pleading for their lives by then.

… Or about to shag the other senseless.  
  
“Is that even a real question?” Silgryn can’t help with whistling mockingly under his breath, watching in sheer amusement as for how Sulky’s mouth curves upwards ever so slowly, a smug smirk showing.   
  
“ _You've been scared of love and what it did to you. You don't have to run, I know what you've been through. Just a simple touch and it can set you free. We don't have to rush when you're alone with me,_ ”   
  
It takes a mere moment for the lad to drag her to the dance floor once more, not as gently as her previous dancer, not as harshly either. “Dear Elune and the stars above…” Cleavage breathes, making an exaggerated display of fanning herself, adding a shake of her navy-haired head.   
  
“Indeed, milady,” Arluin agrees wholeheartedly, whistling shamelessly at the dancers, the three of them leaning back in their seats, definitely intent on watching the show.   
  
In his near five thousand years, Silgryn never would have thought of having the luck to see such an impeccable pair of _dorei_ —like two crucial pieces of a puzzle fitting together before him. No matter how many wonders of the world he’d seen in his uncountable travels, he can count on a single hand the amount of sights that have left him in awe slightly more than the one of those two.

It makes thousands of years on the run and go just… worth it completely.    
  
He can’t help with a dear smile showing on his face at the secret language they speak as they dance—their moves sultry and sensual, yet adding up a tint of caring in between and when their eyes meet, as if reminding themselves where they appear to stand with the other from time to time. Merely touching, they provoke the other, giving and taking quite a lot, yet always keep themselves from not provoking _too much_ .   
  
As they settle into a faster rhythm, they’re then like two big pompous _hippogryphs_ , a sense of hyper-awareness brushed aside as they twirl and sway around each other, working their way to get the other’s unwavering attention. Even when they’re flawless and don’t mistake any single step, that doesn’t seem to ease the heated glares they send to one another, neither backing up from the chance to make an impression.   
  
Silgryn’s not sure if to cackle or smack his forehead in frustration, wondering when they are ever going to stop their utterly stupid courtship and take their much-needed leap for _everyone’s sakes_ . Knowing Mylie and Sulky’s usual demeanors, then probably never, or at least not without a little… intervention.   
  
If it should come from him, Silgryn can’t say, not feeling worthy of getting in the middle of what he _knows_ it comes from the hand of fate. He had already intervened too much in the ways of the Goddess and still, as much as surely the third is the charm, he can’t really tell if his intrusion would bring the outcome he expects for his most cherished _dorei_ in the world.   
  
Although, if he had to be completely honest with himself, it’s not like he’s merely unsure—in fact, he’s _terrified_ .   
  
But then, as the beat slows a little and Mylie rests her back against Sulky’s chest, he whispers something in her ear and she _smiles_ , a fit of giggles boiling up from her chest up to her throat; Silgryn’s own widening into a full grin at the sight.

_Alright, alright. Perhaps it’s not as terrifying as it seems. I should settle with… a tad bit scary._

“Well, that’s it. Fifteen golden coins for them to be all over each other,” Cleavage rubs her hands together, keeping him from hearing what his niece says back to her dancing partner. It’s not like he really needs to listen what Mylie’s saying, however, for her flushed face speaks volumes of her current state.

“Bah, that’s no real bet, Lady Syrana. Make it thirty at least,” Arluin clicks his tongue, sparing a glance at the couple then swaying idly and languidly. “And before her _kal-tora_ ,”

Silgryn snorts in amusement, not bothering to look away from Mylie and Illidan, too immersed onto each other to notice all the bar’s eyes on them. “Fifty coins and a marriage…” He raises the bet, watching intently as how Illidan places a kiss on Mylie’s temple—sweet and tenderly, yet careful. _Tentative_ , nearly as if he’s testing the waters. “In less than an Embrace, I dare say,” He has to add, only able to make an idle prediction with the current sight.

The musicians appear to be torn between stop playing or just keep going, the atmosphere quite better after managing to ease those two’s bitter and sour moods. Eventually, Slender settles for the latter, relaxing in his chair just as much as the dancing couple in each other’s arms.

 _Oh, Drie, if you could see your daughter right now…_ , Silgryn rests his cheek on a fist as he ponders about the view of them. While it doesn’t appear to be a proper time to have a serious talk with Mylie, perhaps, just perhaps, the time may be right to get those two on telling them one of his ancient—and most special—stories: The tale of the Starsurge. _It can wait to after her kal-tora, most definitely._

“Why, I thought the marriage part was already implicit,” The woman on the table huffs, slightly taking him out of his reverie, looking ready to settle another game for the three of them. “Oh, Silgryn, you’re mean. A whole Embrace? That’s a damn long time for me to wait to get really drunk, you know…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how I managed to hold off this chapter for so long - as I'd planned to post it on the 17th - but I just couldn't do it. 
> 
> And **OH MY GOODNESS** , I still can't believe it's been a _whole year_! I want to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for keeping up with this craziness after all this time - from the lurkers and anons to those amazing readers always leaving me PMs or comments. You all mean the whole world to me and I don't really know what I'd do without your encouragement and support. Surely wouldn't have come this far, that's for sure  <3 
> 
> Cheers to you all, and here's hoping you don't get bored - there's sooooo much Mylidan fluff on the way and mind you, the _very best_ is just around the corner. Stay tuned! :D :D :D
> 
> **09/27: Added a quick drawing of young Silgryn :D**


	24. Sturdy Love Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His vision gets blurry and dark on the corners, although Illidan doesn’t even care to look away from that beautiful lavender face—so soft, tender, _gorgeous_ , with a beauty that would match the Goddess herself. Or perhaps Mylenne is, indeed, an embodiment of Her, for he can’t find proper words to describe how incredible, how unlikely, how seemingly impossible is to have such a woman facing him in the way she does right then. 
> 
> Like witnessing real beauty in the flesh. The beauty of the _soul_. 
> 
> For all intents and purposes, he may never know what happens or how he’d come to be so lucky to have someone like Mylenne before him—so at ease, with a sense of joy literally _pouring_ out of her, washing over him as if a blessing would be.
> 
> All that he knows is how his body appears to have a life of its own, capturing a strand of her silky hair, leaning down and closer as he captures her mouth with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, HERE IT IS. **THE CHAPTER WE'VE BEEN ALL WAITING FOR!** (or, at the very least, from my part)  
>  First and foremost, let me apologize for taking this long in updating - life has been hectic and terrible on this end from the last few months, as I'm sure some of you already know. But you all know, despite all intents and purposes, I just couldn't give up on Mylenne and Illidan's story.  
> Anyway, this is it, this is **The Chapter** you and I have been waiting for, and the inevitable turning point for the Starsurge 'verse. Hope you all enjoy it.
> 
>  
> 
> **TW for Alcohol, much fluff and a heartbreaking angst (yeah, sorry about that).**

** Darnassian: **

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

 **Kal-tora(i):** Literal: “Birth night”. (Trivia: Kaldorei celebrate birthdays every 100 years)

 **Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating. Slang: **Sart(e)**.

 **Nal’dore (New Moon):** (Trivia) An ancient omen regarding the end, may it be for the end of a season as well as the end of a life. People born under a **Nal’dore** are partially looked down upon.

* * *

** Stormrage **

**3 months later**

_He can see himself laying atop fresh cerulean grass, eyes shut close, the autumn wind hiding a portion of his face as it sways his cobalt mane, messing with it. Knowing it’s no use to extricate himself from his nightmares and twisted memories, he just settles with crouching behind an oak tree, just as resigned and frustrated as the memory of himself before his eyes. Not like it matters where he’d stand, for he’s merely an echo and doesn’t need a reminder of that exasperating scene—and yet, not like his wishes have been of any matter when he’s bound to walk among the realm of Azure whether he likes it or not._

_With no small curiosity, the female voice speaking to his replica sounds miles and miles away as she does so, dropping to her knees and brushing away some strands on the man’s sweaty forehead. “Illy, dear? You hear me?” Sylenna’s tone is tender even in her evident concern, her silver-white mane swaying with the grace of the Priestess she’s become; very long—the exact length he’s fond of seeing in women—silky and bright as the Moon. “Are you okay? You just—“_

_“Don’t,” His replica cuts her off, merely a grumble, not bothering to drift his eyes open. “You wouldn’t understand either way…” Illidan leans away from her touch and he’s certain from the pursing of his lips how the past version of him seems to be containing himself from snapping something back._

_Just as how he remembers, Sylenna looks taken aback with his replica’s reaction, struggling to find proper words. “Want me to bring you some tea? You look quite pale, dear,”_

_“I want you to_ leave _.”_

_The fact of why he looks away from Sylenna’s stunned face—shocked to the core at his past version’s harsh words—is not precisely out of shame. In truth, he hasn’t felt ashamed or guilty back then, it’s not like his sentiments would change if reliving the scene either way._

_“What? But…” She tries to mumble, shy, menial, servile as she’s always been and is also demanded for; even then trying to amend something she never could or would have the chance to._

_He’s already walking away from the couple when his replica growls, “You heard me…” His voice reverberates through the deep dark surroundings, a mere expanse of stars acting as the only source of light. A dejected glance at the starry sky and the ever so present New Moon serves as an itchy reminder of where he is—the Moon has always been empty inside the realm of Azure—and yet, he doesn’t have any interest whatsoever in keep witnessing a scene he remembers just as easily when he’s awake and lucid._

_“Illidan, what are you—?” Although the scenery isn’t right; they weren’t deep into the Val’sharah forests when that talk happened, but in his home at Meredil. Where are they, even? The eerie void and darkness descending over the two—three, if counting his own echo—of them also doesn’t feel like the homeland of his youth._

_Whenever they are, whatever is happening, neither he nor his replica seems to want to be spending any single second for much longer. Out of a sudden instinct, he knows he needs to take action and escape from that dreadful realm as soon as possible._

_“Get. Out!” Illidan bellows, and the ground trembles at the sound of his raging temper. “Now!”_

_How good does it make to have a constant reminder of how he always ruins everything to dust and never, ever will get what he had always wished? At that point it’s not even torturing, but pointless; even with being lucid he’s completely aware nothing good ever lasts for a_ dorei _such as him._

_Out of nowhere, his breath catches as an azure mist begins to take form behind Illidan and Sylenna, twisted tendrils crawling to his direction, the fresh cerulean grass among them looking like burned out—polluted, contaminating everything it touches—within seconds. And yet, he can’t help but stay frozen still._

_Illidan’s eyes start glowing in the familiar tint of azure, tainting the familiar golden tone as he stares straight at_ him _, wide-eyed as if in near desperation_. _Right there is where he gets it, his heart missing a beat._

_His replica’s last bark was actually directed at him, not to his past lover._

_“_ Arane, _Illidan, get out of here_ now! _” His replica yells once again and his words feel like a straight punch on his nose, threatening to lose his balance, knees wobbling all in a sudden._

_Or perhaps he indeed got a punch, for then the corrupted azure mist looms over him, but the whole world fades to complete black before it reaches him._

A burst of bright yellowish light coming from the window stabs him in the eyes as he drifts them open. “Elun— _crap!_ ” It’s all Illidan mutters before nearly falling off his bed, finding some purchase with the border of his night table. A dozen curses later, he ends up sitting on the floor, rubbing his face harshly and in some way to also avoid staring at the mess he just made while tumbling—his regular glass of Moonwell water pouring over the floor before him, droplets sparkling just like the hundreds of little crystals sprawled all over.

After the nightmare, the urge to down a glass of Moonwell tugs at him more than ever, both for physical and magical needs. For the matter, he’s aware it’s more imperative to find a way to stop such dreadful dreams from happening rather than just pump himself with more mana, but his self-conscious pride always gets in the middle. Besides, the only _dorei_ with a mere inch of knowledge about the Azure Realm he knows happens to be Silgryn _fucking_ Stareye, and Illidan would be long dead before asking him, of all people, for some help whatsoever.

And yet, the fleeting image of the elder Stareye helps with bringing him to his feet in an instant, the clawed azure hand always tugging at his mind beginning to fade when he recalls the particular date of the year. With a newfound purpose and energy, he dresses up while walking down the stairs of his house in a rush, downing a small vial of sparkling water he tends to save for reserve purposes in a small corner of his kitchen. As he brushes his hair and tidies it up in his trademark ponytail, Illidan makes a mental note of refilling his alcohol and mana supplies somewhere around the week before adjusting his purple vest properly.

Opting out for wearing his heavy Spellcaster cloak, he takes instead a lighter, midnight black coat while making his way outside. Illidan notices the evening hasn’t yet arrived as he locks the front door, although it only means he has even more time than calculated for making all the arrangements he’s been planning for four months or so; a little smile tugging at his lips, feeling grateful for the sudden luck.

He can most definitely brush aside the issue with his dreams for the night, for tonight is Mylenne’s _kal-tora._ And Illidan has decided long ago that evening must be nothing less than _perfect_.

* * *

Illidan can’t repress an amused cackle the first second his eyes lay on Syrana, leaning on the doorframe while having a chat with Oculeth. Sure thing, he’d taken precious care in looking presentable for the evening, yet his friend has a particular knack for looking _flawless_ everywhere she goes—even in a regular bar on the outskirts of Suramar City. It’s curious she arrived this early in the evening, but he’s not about to complain about it in the slightest.

Nodding in greeting at the couple of _dorei_ , they appear to be the first ones around the familiar place—that without counting the bartender and regular inhabitants such as Arluin. “I’m taking you brought what I requested last month,”

“Straight from Azsuna’s best artisans, my friend. Funny how you spent all your savings in _a present,_ ” Syrana winks shamelessly at him, a huge grin narrowing her face, “I hid it in the backyard for the moment, but go ahead and see for yourself,” She stabs a thumb past her shoulder, following with a tilt of her head—the well-combed navy hair and slightly sparkling silver adornments perfectly in place.

“Later. I need to see Loth first,” Illidan doesn’t miss the curious look Oculeth gives him as he strides past the couple and inside the bar, passing his coat to Vanthir for the bartender to save elsewhere in the process.

The two _dorei_ follow him as if they have nothing else to do, “Oooh, so is it true, then?” Oculeth sounds deeply thrilled while he makes his way to their recurrent booth, “The lad’s having his debut tonight?”

“Hah, you thought Lothrius was ever up to being the main singer?” The only Sorceress in the place adds with a snort, unlike Oculeth striding to the stage—if to assure everything’s in place or searching for something else, Illidan can’t say for sure. “I don’t really believe he ever will; better leave him behind with that stupid guitar he’s so… _smitten_ with,”

The jealousy slipping off Syrana doesn’t go unnoticed, but Illidan doesn’t get to make a joke about it as a man makes his appearance on the first floor, elbows leaning on the wooden railing in a nonchalant stance. “Hands off, Syra…” Lothrius sends a half-knowing, half-flirting look her way, enough sign for Illidan below to roll his eyes and minding his own business. Luckily—and so to help the slight itchiness showing—he can’t afford much time for idling around, joining Lothrius and making all the necessary arrangements upstage, also with help from Syrana and Priestess Thania, who arrives some moments later.

As the Moon begins rising, the usual customers as well as more familiar faces start crowding the bar, although not precisely the exact lavender face he’s been expecting—and at the same time he doesn’t, given the… _special_ circumstances—ever since he woke up early in the evening. Silgryn and Arluin stride in an hour later, arms linked and matching smirks, following by some of Mylenne’s friends and acquaintances from the Temple; Syrana’s sister, Shalasyr, the ever so temperamental Sentinel Maiev, and a couple of Sisters he can’t place. Even his twin brother ends up showing with Tyrande, walking to him to greet him properly.

“We’ve got an invitation from Mylenne’s uncle,” Tyrande smiles and shrugs nonchalantly as he stares the couple down with a cobalt brow quirking up in question, getting on her tiptoes to give Illidan a peck on his cheek. “Is there something we can help you with, my friend?”

Illidan shakes his head in a more than evident nervous manner, yet he can’t voice a negative before Silgryn joins in as well, slapping the couple on the shoulders from behind. “Better leave that up to the _experienced_ musicians,” The man winks, tilting his nicely tidied dark-violet head at the rest of Illidan’s companions upstage. “Come over, guys! Just saved a very nice spot for the two of you,” Before taking his brother and friend elsewhere, Silgryn glances at him from over his shoulder, “Oh, don’t worry, lad. Mylie’s still hanging out with Jarod, but they’ll be here shortly,”

Nodding in acknowledgment, he returns to focus on the matter at hand, turning on the spare guitar Lothrius gave him a while back with a tap of his purplish glowing fingers. From the corner of his eye, Illidan can notice Silgryn saving one of the front tables for himself and his crew—surely including Hargo’then as well, given he’s still hanging out at the bar occasionally.

The small thought irks him momentarily—his Moon Guard Officer and Silgryn had become pretty close buddies these late months, sharing more than the fair couple of knowing looks from time to time while on their regular gatherings. But for the matter, he’d stopped taking care of that _sart_ long ago as well as worrying for whatever information would Silgryn share with him or not, ever since that haunting event back at Scarleth’s brothel some years back.

In truth, Illidan has been taking businesses by himself and doing his own observations for the past few years, with some help from his closest friends and their particular connections. Something quite obvious—at least from him and Syrana’s part—has been Silgryn’s sheer interest in the Vashj Princesses, more precisely the mysterious Princess Azshara.

However, how she may interfere or participate in the intricate power plays regarding the Suramari nobility, neither Illidan nor Syrana had found out a reasonable answer. Merely that the Princess from Vashj’ir and first in line to the throne shared some interesting similarities with a late powerful Sorceress such as Aedriel Stareye; their perfect grades in the arts of Arcane Manipulation, their unmatched beauty, as well as their knack for many complex incantations as he’d witnessed firsthand.

His latest conclusion had been about Silgryn oddly worrying for Princess Azshara’s state of mind. Yet even so, why would he be nosing and keeping so many tabs on way higher levels of the Highborne nobility? Whatever could happen to the Princess, that’s up to the city’s Courts and Queen Lestharia to decide and deal with, not a petty noble Lord who’s even abandoned his Household for good so many centuries back. 

A slightly insistent tap on his shoulder brings him out of his reverie, “We’re all set, buddy,” Lothrius’ hand stays there for a tad bit longer than necessary, if to bring Illidan some comfort or reassurance, he can’t tell. “Leave Thania and Oculeth to do the rest. Let’s get some ales and chill for a bit,” His words bring up the worst sense of anxiety to Illidan’s gut, but Lothrius’ soft smile helps with calming the impending itching as he gently pulls him off stage by the arm. “Come on, Lid, there’s nothing else we can do here, everything’s going to be fine! Let’s go meet Syra at the bar,”

His nervous nod gives him away, but there’s nothing Illidan can do right about then to be subtle about it—after all, if one of his best friends had just noticed the stress he’s just carrying, then denying it or lying wouldn’t do any good. However, Lothrius’ idea and guidance seem to be one of the best ways to ground himself and knock it off for a while before Mylenne’s arrival.

 _Since when did you start getting so itchy for anything, Stormrage? Calm down, everything’s in your favor tonight and you know_ _it already._

For some reason, the odd voice within him doesn’t help in the slightest to tone down his anxiety; if anything, it makes it worse. He has been planning that night to be anything but perfect for _months_ —rehearsing when she wasn’t around, contacting Syrana’s artisans, swallowing up his dislike for the younger Shadowsong sibling and arranging a meeting to keep Mylenne out of the bar and busy, even figuring out some ways to keep his plans hidden from Silgryn Stareye’s ever watchful eyes.

What if something, _anything_ goes wrong? What if he forgets the song’s lyrics? What if Rak’shareh opts for wander off and leaves him alone in the middle of the outskirts? Or if Mylenne’s uncle decides to pick him as the laughingstock of the evening—which wouldn’t be unexpected given his nature?

A large glass of Cider appears on his hand before Illidan comes to notice the presence of his other best friend. “Drink it all, Lid,” Syrana’s tone doesn’t seem to allow a negative from his part, staring at him intently as he downs the drink in two gulps, “Thaaaaat’s it. Best Nightpear in town, am I right? I’d choose wine but I just happen to know _exactly_ what you need. Now get another one,” A half-chuckle, half-snort escapes his lips, not feeling up to making a retort as he signals Vanthir up.

Illidan’s good with downing a second drink, and then a third and a fourth for good measure, his nearly painful fast heartbeat settling down to measurable levels, muscles relaxing and mind-numbing to a point he starts feeling at ease with. From his periphery, he notices Silgryn and his crew seemingly doing their best to not look up deeply amused, but at the fifth drink he reaches a certain point in which he just stops worrying and wondering about what they may be thinking.

That is, until a woman in a sky blue gown and a very long violet hair opens the bar’s doors—all heads turning to her and her partner right behind. A moment later, the entire place echoes and nearly booms in the same chant.

“ _Happy_ kal-tora _, Mylenne!_ ”

Illidan’s neck cranes in her direction rather painfully, standing up and raising his almost empty glass at her as every single _dorei_ in the place does, many of them approaching to hug Mylenne or pat her on the shoulders and back. However, no matter how much he _yearns_ to be close to her, his feet appear to be stuck in their place, heavy like two big rocks, unable to move. All he can do is stay where he is, his face softening drastically when their eyes meet—bright silver and golden, a relieved smile clinging to his lips.

She looks _gorgeous_ , with a beauty that would match and beat the Goddess herself as she gently removes from all the hugs and people surrounding her, striding right in Illidan’s direction with a firm pace, taking his breath away with the cheerful smile she sends his way—a smile only meant _for him._

“I knew you’d be behind all this, Lid!” It’s all Mylenne says before throwing herself into his arms—almost as she was meaning to do that from the very beginning. It doesn’t help for his heart to nearly hammering its way out of his chest, but he doesn’t care as an overwhelming sense of relief washes over him, meeting her midway and sending her spinning many times, careful not to crush her in his embrace. “I’ve been _just about_ making Jarod spill out everything, but he didn’t somehow. And I can be very persuasive with him, but he kept biting his tongue and didn’t—“

“It wasn’t only my doing,” Illidan admits, the alluring scent of her going straight to his head as he buries his face in her neck. “I didn’t do anything, to be honest. Your uncle was the one to send the invitations, and your band’s been very helpful as they rehearsed with me for some months back,”

She lets go of him in sheer surprise, bright silver eyes wide open, although doesn’t let go as Illidan fears for a moment. “My… _band_ , you say?” Very slowly, an astounded smile clings to her lips, blinking many times as if she couldn’t believe it just yet. “That’s what you’ve been doing behind my back—?”

A tug in Mylenne’s arm brings her away from him completely, the most temperamental of her friends coming to view, making Illidan swallow a groan out of politeness. “Come, Myl. Your uncle saved you a front seat for tonight,” Maiev sends a forced smile his way, not letting go of her friend as she interlocks their arms together, pulling her further apart and to the biggest table in the bar. “You won’t believe the cake we made _especially_ for you,”

Illidan hopes the elder Shadowsong doesn’t notice the annoyed rolling of his eyes, yet follows either way, his friends right behind him. Silgryn quickly gathers the entire group around his niece as the ever so servile second waitress of the bar, Verene, comes in between the crowd with a big moonberry cake—a silver crescent moon pointing upwards adorning the top along with some violet candles, flaring in pretty shades of purplish-blue.

Mylenne’s face brightens with sheer joy as her loved ones join her at the table; her uncle and the Shadowsong siblings nearly trapping her in place as the whole bar chants the same line in a ‘Happy _kal-tora!_ ’. Her deep blush before blowing off the candles makes Illidan grin from ear to ear, joining the round of applause as a sense of warmth washes over him with the mere sight of the woman before him looking so overjoyed and grateful.

For some suspicious reason, Mylenne’s lover doesn’t seem to be present, but Illidan isn’t up to looking a cat gift in the mouth. Either way, they have been on the verge of a break up for the past two months, so perhaps it wouldn’t be weird if Hargo ends up not showing at all, Illidan’s personal feelings towards their relationship aside.

“Dear _Goddess_! This tastes like heaven!” Mylenne sighs heavily with half a mouthful of cake, taking a quick sip of the nearest ale to speak properly. “It even _smells_ like it!” Casting a knowing glance at the elder Shadowsong, it’s all it takes to give her away—for the first time in Illidan’s life, being a witness of Maiev _arane_ Shadowsong literally _blushing._

“Heh, Vanthir’s hands are on it as well,” Silgryn remarks, the brightest of grins never leaving his lavender face. “Also, Margeaux and her lifemate send their regards, as I’m sure you’d already noticed the particular _flavor,_ ” He kisses his niece’s forehead fondly at the same time a hand lands heavily on Illidan’s shoulder, nearly startling him—if it weren’t for the previous heavy drinks he already had, unconsciously sending his senses on high alert.

Lothrius head subtly tilting towards the perfectly set up stage is all Illidan needs to get on the move; a nearly breathtaking sense of anxiety making his ears tilt downwards and sending his hands shaking, yet complying with his friend as they head away from the table.

Insecurity takes claim of his head once more; what if something, _anything_ , goes wrong? What if Mylenne doesn’t actually like what they’ve prepared for her? Maybe he should’ve picked a more cheerful song, given the special date, or perhaps something that wouldn’t leave him as… _vulnerable_ as he’s feeling he’s about to become. He should have left Lothrius and Thania do their magic, not put him in the spotlight exactly tonight. Surely Mylenne was only being polite when she once said some years back he had a lovely voice and nothing further.

The noise of a clearing throat breaks him out of his reverie, leaving Illidan hyperaware he’s already seated in the front with Lothrius’ spare guitar—in front of _the whole bar,_ no less—the musicians ready for his sign to start.

For all intents, purposes and months of rehearsal as well, he’s sitting right there in front of the public, Illidan realizes. He might as well—and quite literally—face the music. Taking a deep breath, his nails pull the strings of his guitar in a tentative try, noticing it right in sync as planned.

“Ahem,” He flinches as his voice echoes throughout the entire bar, yet does his best to maintain his composure. Where has it been when he’s been as nervous as then? “Well, I, um… I’ve heard a certain _dorei_ saying they’d like to hear me sing, some years back. I guess I had to try, for what it matters,” Feeling his face burning as he blushes, Illidan knows for sure he couldn’t feel more embarrassed, not daring to glance at the crowd before him. “Now you can’t blame me for not trying something new, Mylie…” The jest comes out of his mouth without any particular reason, a nervous chuckle following.

Lothrius pulls some strings of his guitar so to set the song in motion, but suddenly Illidan’s throat feels closed, his voice not coming out. From his periphery, he notices Thania smiling in understanding, using her harp so to cover his rookie misstep. Half a minute and some breaths later, the song comes by itself.

 _“I'm looking at you through the glass, don't know how much time has passed. Oh, Moon, it feels like forever. But no one ever tells you that forever feels like home, sitting all alone inside your head,”_ His throat feels tight and almost unused for several weeks, although at least his fingers work by itself with pulling the strings as intended, not missing the notes he’s been practicing for weeks. __  
  
“How do you feel? That is the question, but I forget we don't expect an easy answer.”Illidan’s head unconsciously tilts to the side, partially hearing his partners and doing his best to keep up—despite the incredibly fast pacing of his heart. _“When something like a soul becomes initialized and folded up in shards and scrolls and little notes, you can't expect a bit of hope,”_  
  
He dares to raise his head, glancing through crinkled slits at everyone but the particular woman he’s singing for, focusing on the pretty bluish patterns spreading across Syrana’s sleeves. _“So while you're outside looking in, describing what you see, remember what you're staring at is me,”_  
  
The words come out of his mouth before thinking about it, just as how’s been practiced. _“Because I'm looking at you through the glass, don't know how much time has passed,”_ His eyes meet Mylenne’s, yet only very briefly before glancing away, not ready to face her just then. _“All I know is that it feels like forever, and no one ever tells you that forever feels like home, sitting all alone inside your head…”_  
  
As planned, his fingers move across the strings so very slowly, feeling the vibrations alongside his hands. _“How much is real? So much to question. An epidemic of their fake smirks, contaminating everything,”_ A fleeting knowing smile crosses his face, his eyes finally drifting to the front table, noticing the Stareyes having their attention completely glued to him—a pair of two silver eyes wide and big as two beautiful Moons watching him intently. _Adoringly_ , even. _“We thought it came from the heart; it never did right from the start. Just listen to the noises,”_ Lothrius complies with his own line, adding, _“Null and void instead of voices,”_  
  
The sight of Mylenne, seemingly fascinated, is everything that takes to spur him on; more motivated than ever before, his voice not so strained anymore as he properly faces the public as he should’ve done from the start, _“Before you tell yourself it's just a different scene, remember it's just different from what you've seen,”_  
  
He stands tall and slightly imposing, an encouraging smirk from his musicians flashing on the corner of his eyes. _“Because I'm looking at you through the glass, don't know how much time has passed. All I know is that it feels like forever, and no one ever tells you that forever feels like home, sitting all alone inside your head,”_

The rhythm swifts into a faster pace, Thania and Lothrius joining hearteningly, the crowd nearly exploding as the three of them chant from the bottom of their lungs, _“And it's the stars, the stars that shine for you! And it's the stars, the stars that lie to you as well!”_

Mylenne and her uncle nearly jump from their seats, raising their fists and singing along with the entire bar—what may possibly started as a chill mood suddenly turning into a full rave. It doesn’t take long for a good bunch to stride to the dance floor ahead, Syrana right on the lead, cheering and spurring them on. Funnily enough, Illidan’s fears and insecurities fade away within each shouting from the crowd below, internally laughing at his own odd shyness.

He never had anything to be anxious of in the first place and right then, with Mylenne and Syrana beaming at him and gleefully shouting from the bottom of their lungs, Illidan can’t come to understand how he’d the nerves to doubt of himself at the beginning—how mere minutes ago he couldn’t even meet his friends’ eyes or even walk upstage when actually it’d been exactly what he needed to strengthen his resolve.

Perhaps it’s just the liquid courage finally working, but his gut tells him otherwise; it has been just the intensity in Mylenne’s gaze, utterly glued on him—and _only him—_ delight nearly pouring out of her and sending his heart to hammer its way out of his chest in sheer joy.

_“And it's the stars, the stars that shine for you! And it's the stars, the stars that lie to you as well!”_

For some reason and a painful minute, he doesn’t want to finish the song, hesitant and clinging to that heavenly feeling warming him from the inside out. Surprisingly so, Illidan finds out again he doesn’t have anything to be fearful of as Lothrius pulls the final strings and the entire place explodes in a round of applause.

It doesn’t take long for Illidan to be pulled offstage and blend in as the ‘ _experienced musicians’_ , as Silgryn insistently remarks it, take care of keeping the cheerful party going. Taking precious care of staying in the quite opposite side from the Shadowsong siblings—not like it matters to the young one, Jarod, apparently more than entranced and dancing with Shalasyr, yet still careful and keeping a watchful eye on Maiev—Syrana, Mylenne and him take a safe and wide space to mingle and dance along, drinks coming and going as normal in celebrations such as these.

“I knew you had it in you,” Mylenne insists while throwing her arms around his neck, feeling her slightly tipsy as she clumsily drops a tender kiss close to his jaw. “I’m so proud and glad you dared to come upstage and sing for us,”

“Bah, he just needed a little nudge from his friends,” Syrana smirks at his periphery, not needing a partner to sway and enjoy the music by herself, purposefully giving them their personal space yet, as usual, showing her endless support—something Illidan has always appreciated and had been fond of a noble Lady such as her. “Aaaaand some liquid courage as well, but that’s normal,”

Mylenne throws a genuine cackle in his arms, “Can totally relate with the liquid courage. First time I made a performance, people could smell the two bottles of Nightwine I had from miles away, believe me,” Illidan sends her spinning twice but her merry laugh never stops, his grin growing wider as she leans on his chest and rests her cheek there for a moment. “What matters is that you _dared_ , Lid,” She whispers close to his collarbone, a slight shiver running down his stomach with the feeling of her lips slightly brushing his skin, “I couldn’t ask for anything more this evening. Thank you so, _so_ much for this…”

“Hey,” He uses two fingers to lift her head by the jaw, properly facing her, “If you think your _kal-tora_ is over, then it’s safe to say you have absolutely _no idea…_ ”

* * *

“A remarkable evening so far,” Silgryn starts, folding up the cards and throwing them around the table for each player to take, “Having a blast of a party in the middle of a _Nal’dore_. That doesn’t look up to let pass unnoticed, don’t you think?” A tilt of his dark-violet head follows, seemingly looking partially surprised for the turn of events as the group folds their own cards to play.

“That is, if you believe in such _pointless_ events like those,” Oculeth carefully exams his cards before making his remark, throwing a useless one to the pile and grabbing another in attempts to make a proper set. “The kiddo was born at sunrise, though, so it’s not like anybody would look down upon her,”

Silgryn snorts in amusement and partial warning, his usual demeanor exactly on point. “Pfft. Just let them _try,_ ” The entire table groans as he throws a neat set of Dukes for all to see, Syrana throwing her cards in evident annoyance and Silgryn’s lover merely smirking in acknowledgment.

“Just let them try _indeed,_ ” Illidan retorts, showing his own set of Magisters and winning the hand, a sly smirk narrowing his face as he brings all the coins to his side with a nonchalant flick of his wrist.

“Well, well…” Syrana adds up with both navy eyebrows lifting in surprise—although, knowing her as much as he does, not surprised at all, “It seems Lid is having his lucky evening of the decade,”

Illidan feels like wanting to remark ‘ _finally, at last’,_ although unfortunately, such words caught up in this mouth as he notices a long, tidied up violet mane from the corner of his eye, looking like having the time of her life on the dance floor. Jarod appears to have mentioned something funny, due to his elder sister, Mylenne and Thania—then having a break from performing—sharing some good cackles afterwards, the four of them swaying idly with the music. A small smile clings to Illidan’s mouth with the sight, relief flooding through him, elbows leaning on the table as he relaxes further in his seat.

He keeps watching her for some more while Syrana’s turn comes to fold the cards and start another game, partially lost and unable to look away from that joyful look on Mylenne’s face. She, of all _dorei,_ deserves a happy and relaxing night with the people she cares about, and Illidan can’t help but notice he also needed to see _her_ like that, even more so after all these tumultuous years and all they went through.

_Aaw, this is quite unexpected of you, Stormrage. Who could have guessed that? You’re falling for her…_

Illidan shakes away the prickly voice of his head as subtly as he can, completely against allowing it to ruin the good evening he’s having. Surprisingly so, something else happening on the dance floor catches his attention a moment later; a quite tipsy Mylenne catching Thania by the waist, a mug of ale on her other hand almost dripping its contents before all in a sudden, she leans down to the petite Sister’s height, sloppily… _kissing_ her.

Cobalt brows quirk up in surprise, his stomach making a twist—a sense of jealousy, awe, amusement and anger coursing through him altogether, unsure how to make or what to think of that sight. For the matter, apparently he’s not the only one having a sort of weird reaction, catching Sentinel Maiev behind them seemingly looking as astounded as ever; however and just like Illidan, recovering her composure just as quickly as it came.

However, all returns to normal when Mylenne lets her friend go with an evident blush creeping on her cheeks, covering her mouth and going through a fit of giggles. Thania laughs as well, patting her on the shoulder and shying away from her friend’s eyes, throwing her a flick of her wrist in the universal sign to just brush it off. Behind the pair, the youngest Shadowsong sibling helps with cutting off the awkward scene, gently pulling Mylenne to the front table where her closest group is seated—if in attempts for her to stop drinking or anything else, Illidan can’t tell.

Obliging with her friend, a completely embarrassed Mylenne makes her way to them, “ _Mother Moon_ ,” It’s all she can say, seemingly unable to still stop giggling, “I think I’ve had a liiiiittle too much,” The men at the table share an amused laugh, but—and surprisingly so, given Silgryn’s nature—none of them voice their thoughts on the matter, giving her some space to drop her empty mug on the table. “Looks like a proper time to go get some fresh air, I guess…”

“Mind if I join you?” Illidan’s words come out in a rush, his mouth speaking before his mind gets able to process what he’d just asked. Syrana nods thoughtfully from his periphery—surely knowing what he’s secretly up to—but he doesn’t pay mind to his friend while Mylenne just stretches her hand in his direction, prompting him to follow her. Silgryn throws a low, dark chuckle, yet doesn’t make a remark as Illidan grabs his niece’s hand and follows her.

It’s not that chill as he’s thought when they reach the outskirts, although quite darker than he’d like, given the _Nal’dore_ still on course. Mylenne doesn’t speak yet keeps laughing silently as they walk together under a street lamp, leaning on it and apparently basking on the fresh air the night is giving them—silver eyes drifting close, a small smile still narrowing her lips.

Illidan takes the opportunity to use Rak’shareh’s whistle, not so loudly so not startle Mylenne, prompting the frostsaber to stride in their direction at the calling. “Hey, baby girl,” She mumbles softly, stretching an arm when the beast comes into view under the light. “How you doing—wait a second…”

Rak’shareh purrs under her hand, nudging it tenderly with her muzzle, inevitably showing the new saddle she’s wearing—Mylenne’s eyes going wide open at the sight. The silver seat fits her quite nicely, a violet leather cushion and a set of delicate feathers matching it on the sides softly waving with the night breeze. Illidan didn’t have the chance to see what he’s paid for, but mentally sends his thanks to Syrana and her artisans for the incomparable job they’ve done with the saddle, looking even more stunning than what he’d expected.

Mylenne looks lost for words as she delicately touches the violet cushion, her jaw nearly on the ground, eyes gleaming in sheer surprise. “This is… this is from you, isn’t it?” It’s all she can voice properly, brows quirking up as if unable to believe what she’s seeing.

“I guess I must take you like it,” Illidan grins, giving her some space with her beast and leaning against the street lamp.

His enjoyment turns into a slight trepidation a minute later after he catches a tear falling down Mylenne’s cheek from the portion of the face he can see under the light. However, her body and aura don’t show any signs of sadness or pain; in fact, the entire opposite. He’s about to ask if everything’s alright while leaning a hand over her shoulder tenderly, but the words get caught on his throat as she speaks first—merely whispering. “I never knew you could be like this, Lid,”

She turns to face him properly, quickly cleaning the tears falling down her face. “I mean, so incredibly kind. Caring, compassionate, _genuine_. After all these years, I just noticed…” Something catches in her throat and Illidan leans closer, brows furrowing in concern. For the matter, Mylenne’s quick in dismissing his worries with a shake of her head, “When everybody did it at least once in their lives, you never, ever _faked_ a smile at me. You never _lied_ to me,”

Illidan can’t help but throw a low chuckle at the comment. “And why would I need to do that?” All he gets is a shrug of her shoulders, but he gets what she’s saying. “But, by the way… when have you started thinking so high of me?”

Her eyes unconsciously drift to the dark road ahead of them. “I have no idea,” She confesses, “But before meeting you, all I knew about you was that… _charming fame_ of yours with any _dorei_ that would come across you,” A knowing smirk spread across her lavender face, yet not meeting his eyes right away, “That you were a beguiler, definitely untrustworthy by regular standards. Driven by one single purpose, looking for magic and beauty,”

As if having a life of its own, his hand returns to her bare shoulder, squeezing it softly, “Power-hungry. That’s the word you may be looking for. You know this by now, that—“

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Magic _is_ beauty, and beauty _is_ power,’” Mylenne makes a show of imitating his own words said in the past, rolling her eyes in amusement, eliciting a soft cackle out of him. “Also, everyone said you were aspiring for so much and so high in the clouds it was just unreliable to have you close,”

Illidan tilts his head to the side, thoughtful, “Well, I can’t really say those tell tales were all lies,” He can’t help but admit, “I never claimed to be a saint. Still don’t think I am, for the record,”

A heartwarming light surrounds her body while Mylenne properly faces him once more—a silver-white light coming from the Moon just as bright as her gorgeous eyes, warming him from the inside out, time appearing to freeze all in a sudden. Illidan can’t even feel his racing heart when he meets her gaze; raptured, _entranced_ by the beautiful _dorei_ that she is, smiles matching, the feeling of her even smelling like… _home_.

He notices her tugging at her leather straps tying her hair, helping her with the task in an unconscious manner—his fingers savoring the feeling of her silky violet hair as it falls down like a curtain. “So, what’s changed?” Mylenne wonders, her voice so low Illidan almost doesn’t catch it.

The answer comes just as simply as breathing. “I met you.” Illidan says, catching a strand of violet hair in his hand, idly toying with it.

He can’t possibly tell what’s happening or what happens next, a silver-white light haloing her head, faint sparks of _golden_ surrounding her. Or is it because of her bright smile directed at him? Illidan doesn’t know _how,_ but it feels as if her aura _calls_ to him; beaming, slightly sparkling, pulling him towards Mylenne in ways he can’t come to understand. Neither can grasp how the warmth from the Moon floods and courses through him, a sense of safety—of _home_ —enveloping him like a blanket.

His vision gets blurry and dark on the corners, although Illidan doesn’t even care to look away from that beautiful lavender face—so soft, tender, _gorgeous,_ with a beauty that would match the Goddess herself. Or perhaps Mylenne is, indeed, an embodiment of Her, for he can’t find proper words to describe how incredible, how unlikely, how seemingly impossible is to have such a woman facing him in the way she does right then.

Like witnessing real beauty in the flesh. The beauty of the _soul_.

For all intents and purposes, he may never know what happens or how he’d come to be so lucky to have someone like Mylenne before him—so at ease, with a sense of joy literally _pouring_ out of her, washing over him as if a blessing would be.

All that he knows is how his body appears to have a life of its own, capturing a strand of her silky hair, leaning down and closer as he captures her mouth with his.

Time appears to stop, not even the breeze whispering around them, the need for breathing never coming. Or maybe it’s him who doesn’t even _dare_ to do it, afraid to break that deep and heartwarming spell enveloping them both. Tentatively, Illidan deepens the kiss, although somehow it feels they’ve already gone through such intimate moment—the taste of her lips feeling like something intricately _unique_ , definitely remarkable and totally distinguishable from any woman he’d once kissed before.

The only thing he can feel apart from the delightful texture and taste of her lips is the intense beating of his heart, nearly _singing_ for her, _craving_ to have her closer—a sensation that almost overwhelms him while slowly encircling her waist, pulling her further close, her scent of lilies going straight to his head and threatening to make him dizzy. A trembling nimble hand settles in his chest and sends a jolt of electricity throughout his entire body, heart jumping in sheer joy; something he’s certain he hadn’t ever felt before.

Like heaven, that’s how Mylenne feels and tastes like. Like home, like a fresh breeze brushing his skin, like beauty incarnated, like where he—undoubtedly— _belongs_.

A soft gasp from her part makes time return to its course, their lips parting yet making Illidan very reluctant of letting her go just yet, leaning his forehead against hers. Mylenne pants, her breath fanning his mouth, numbing Illidan’s senses, prompting him to kiss her again, and again, and _again_ , until the end of his nights. Yet as something wet falls over the back of his hand and the smallest of sobs makes his ears twitch, he manages to contain himself from doing so.

His voice feels strained and weak, although he succeeds in coming up with words. “Say something…” Illidan pleads, cupping her cheek in one of his slightly trembling hands. “ _Please_ …”

The sound of someone clearing their throat sends her startling, although—and thanking Mother Moon and the stars above—she doesn’t flinch away from him just yet. “Illidan…” He feels someone walking to their direction and her eyes drift to the side, but that only prompts him to keep her attention on his face, mouthing another plea, heart racing within each second Mylenne remains silent.

A trembling lavender hand cups his, slightly leaning her face on his touch, the most wonderful feeling of hope blossoming inside him. “Oh, Illidan, I’m… I’m—” Mylenne strains to come up with words, tears flooding down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m _so sorry_ …”

Illidan’s eyes open wide, his breath hitching, all he’d felt mere moments ago disappearing within the next blink, something painful striking through his chest as if a dagger would be. It gets worse as Mylenne disentangles herself and glances away from him—sheer guilt narrowing her face. “Wh—what…” Her unstable aura is all that lights up their surroundings, a sense of darkness enveloping him. “What—Mylie!” She keeps apologizing in her quick stride inside the bar, her sobbing getting louder as she goes. “ _Mylenne!_ ”

His mind races with many possible theories of what could make her react in the way she just did, but all Illidan knows is that he can’t let her just walk away after what had just happened. With some surprise, Syrana’s the first to get in his way, saying something that never reaches his ears, although he easily brushes his friend off and follows the long violet mane opening the bar’s doors hastily, turning left and directly to the stairs leading to the rooms above.

Everyone’s still celebrating, the mood and ambiance not appearing to change in the slightest, except for one small thing—a familiar man with short cobalt hair and dull golden eyes making his appearance on the first floor. The sight of Hargo’then somehow makes his blood turn into ice, yet it’s not enough for Illidan to make him stop in his tracks; in fact, it’s the entire opposite, going for the stairs in long strides, more than ready to face whoever wants to get between him and Mylenne.

Turns out, it’s Silgryn _fucking_ Stareye who does so, suddenly getting in his way and firmly grabbing Illidan by the arm, his face stern and hard as a rock. “Don’t,” It’s all he nearly growls, clutching him harder after an attempt of brushing him off from Illidan’s part.

“This isn't your concern, Silgryn. It's about me and Mylenne, so step aside and let me through—”

That only gets Illidan to be pushed backwards and to the bottom of the stairs, the elder Stareye’s face twisting in near disgust, lavender jaw clenching almost painfully. “Can you just stop thinking about yourself for a _fucking moment_ and listen to me?” Silgryn snarls, at least being decent enough to not catch the attention of the entire bar. “She’ll be fine, just needs to process what you both did,”

_What you both did? What in Elune’s fucking sake is he talking about?_

Behind the pair, Syrana appears to hesitate to get in the middle of them, yet after a tense minute and very heated looks between him and Silgryn, she appears decided to speak up. “At least listen to me, Lid. Please, come with me and look outside,” He doesn’t acknowledge her right away, his head racing with many questions regarding why, for the Mother Moon and all the stars above, everyone just suddenly decided to… contain him as they’re doing so. “Illidan, _please,_ ”

He huffs in deep annoyance and rolls his eyes, but after a long breath Illidan can’t think of anything else but oblige, following his friend and looking across the window. “… What?” Feeling frustrated in dangerous levels, he throws his hands in the air. “Seriously, what? Why are you all doing this? And what am I supposed to see?”

Silgryn comes to stand beside him, a shocked look on his lavender face. “Don't you get it, Illidan?” Cobalt brows knit in a deep frown, sharp teeth showing. It’s as if they’re talking in a language he doesn’t understand—and at the most inappropriate moment of his _entire life._ “It started when you two were outside! Somehow, for reasons I can’t come up to understand, it’s like you two caused this. I may have a slight theory but still, it’s… it’s… unbelievable,”

Reaching the end of his patience, he's about to ask again what in Elune’s sake are they talking about, but Syrana tugs at his wrist, recalling his attention. “Just look up, Lid,” She insists in a calming tone.

Leaning closer to the window, he stares at the sky, the Moon’s silvery-white light shining upon them, painting the outskirts in familiar pretty shades of cerulean and—

_Wait._

Golden eyes drift upstairs to the locked room belonging to Mylenne, then return to look up again at the sky, realization dawning upon him, jaw nearly dropping and frown deepening.

For reasons unknown, the Moon is up there, shining bright and warm as usual… in the middle of a _New Moon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song from Stone Sour - Through Glass: https://youtu.be/6Keeqf5dCMw
> 
> As usual, I kneel to all those who've encouraged me to keep this story going. To be quite honest, I'm having one of the worst moments of my life, fighting depression as if fisting with Godzilla himself, and this hard battle has been taking a huge toll on me.  
> Updating Starsurge has been what kept me going as well as all your amazing words of support. I can't possibly tell with words how grateful I am to all of you, but in between working on commissions, illustrations and writing, it's 110% positive to say you are the reason why I'm still here, as strong as I can be, and there's no way I can thank all of you for how much you've been helping me.  
> For all intents and purposes, you mean the freaking World to me - and I know I've said this a dozen times, but seriously, I can't seem to find another way to genuinely express this apart from this. With your donations, requests, comments, commissions, you've all been saving my life, and that's more than what I could possibly ask for. 
> 
> So, then again, from the bottom of my heart, **thank you**. I know this cliffhanger is sort of bitter for everything that's been going on in this update, but I can certainly promise there's more - a damn lot more! - on the way. And I can't say properly how glad I am for all of you to have stuck with me this year and forth with Mylie and Illidan's story.  
>  Here's hoping to be hearing your thoughts, good or bad ones, from now on. And again, THANK YOU FOR YOUR ENDLESS SUPPORT!.


	25. Pathfinder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As poetic and a wonderful telltale that might be, The Path always points to the _Moon_ , not to the _ground_ ,”
> 
> Oculeth and Lothrius join in with mugs in hand, everyone gathering around the window as if there’s something interesting to see outside. “Or perhaps Silgryn is not that as far ahead as it sounds and the sighting was indeed pointing at _a Moon_.” Her uncle’s friend raises an index finger as if trying to prove an odd theory, staring at the group in surprise when nobody appears to understand where he is going with his remark, “Oh, come on! You can’t tell me you’ve ever heard about the _Jai’dore_ and _Kelim’dore_ , the first of our kind who populated the land. It’s one of the most popular—“
> 
> “ _Children_ stories…” A familiar baritone voice interrupts Oculeth’s slight rant, sending a shiver down Mylenne’s spine with the definitely disapproving tone, hesitating to turn around and face the newcomer.

** Darnassian: **

**Dalah’dorei:** An endearment. Can be translated to “My child/children” or “Child/children of mine”.  Trivia: Despite ‘dalah’ being literal my/mine pronouns, ‘dorei’ doesn’t necessarily refers to a youngster in some cases.

 **Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

 **Kal-tora(i):** Literal: “Birth night”. (Trivia: Kaldorei celebrate birthdays every 100 years)

 **Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating. Slang: **Sart(e)**.

 **Nal’dore (New Moon):** (Trivia) An ancient omen regarding the end, may it be for the end of a season as well as the end of a life. People born under a **Nal’dore** are partially looked down upon.

 **Kelim’dore:** (Trivia) Kelim’dore comes from an old dialect, referring to a myth regarding the guardians of the skies and Warriors of the Sun, created to protect and guard over the Moon’s first daughters. In current times it’s used as an endearment for a male kaldorei, although the meaning and use got rapidly lost over the years.

 **Jai’dore (Full Moon):** (Trivia) Jai’dore comes from an old dialect, referring to a myth regarding the first females who walked among the land, the Daughters of the Moon. In current times, the meaning shifted until taking a similar reference to the period of Full Moon and is also used as an endearment.

 **Arane:** A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for “nightmare/s”. 

* * *

** Stareye **

**3 months later**

_His voice sounds strained and weak, although he succeeds in coming up with words. “Say something…” Illidan pleads, cupping her cheek in one of his hands. “Please…”_

_She feels herself trembling under his touch, her heart hammering its way out of her chest. Where was the time when she has felt such…_ plenitude? _Certainly then, she can’t possibly tell. “Illidan,” She whispers to his hard—and at the same time so soft, so full of promises, so_ safe _—lips, “What is there to say?”_

 _Only a slight breath is his response, although she pays no mind, craning her neck up to kiss him fully, the silvery-white moonlight enveloping them feeling like heaven. Or maybe it’s Illidan who makes her feel so up in the clouds, not wanting to come down from her reverie—from his embrace, his warmth, from that incredible sensation of her own heartbeat_ singing _with sheer joy. For some reason and from the back of her mind, she has a strong suspicion it’s the latter._

_The sound of a feminine voice clearing her throat brings her down, like a sudden tug on her feet prompting her to return to the ground. In an act of reflex, she stares at an astounded Syrana, and her heart also falls down to the grass._

_The world starts spinning rapidly, but when she opens her eyes once again, all she can see is that adoringly and oh so bright golden gaze looking at her through crinkled slits, their foreheads leaning against each other._

_“Say something… please…”_

_“What do you want me to say?” She wonders this time in a pant, his breath fanning her mouth. Her hand clings from his chest to his shoulder and it’s like he can’t contain himself, brushing her mouth with his first, tentative, then holding her tighter as Illidan captures her lower lip between both of his when she reciprocates his gesture, a hand burying in her hair while he captures her mouth completely._

_There’s no interruption right then, and as she kisses Illidan back it’s as if she’s rousing something stronger in him, allowing his familiar—and at the same time, not in_ that _way—passionate side to break through; settling a certain hot warmth within them both, threatening to burn them from the inside out. Not like she minds that, though, for she’d happily let herself envelope in that all-consuming fire if it means she could be in his arms for a heavenly moment._

_Illidan lets her go for a spare moment, “That you want the same as I,” Seemingly overcome with a strong need, he doesn’t let her reply, though; capturing her lips as if it’s the last chance he’d ever have in his life, and merely wants to savor it fully._

_And she does—of course she does. It’s all she’s ever wanted, all she have ever dreamed of, even in her nightmares, from the very first moment her eyes laid on him._

_Something shifts once more, like an hourglass being abruptly turned, time and her rapid heartbeat resetting all of a sudden. Her hand clings to his cheek and they part, foreheads leaning against each other. “Say something,” Illidan pleads again, his voice sounding strained and weak, “Please…”_

_Damn, she needs to be faster. And yet, the temptation to wait, to linger in that perfect moment they’re sharing over and over again is incredibly strong._

_“Illidan, I d—“_

An insistent knock on the door startles her, returning to the realm of the living too abruptly for her liking. “You awake, _dalah’dorei_?” A muffled voice, although remarkably familiar, wonders from outside her room. They don’t wait for her response, however; Silgryn and Arluin’s heads—dark-violet and leaf green—showing tentatively behind the door. “Oh, good, you are. It’s past bedtime anyways,” Silgryn excuses himself, striding in and coming to lean beside the window.

Mylenne stifles an annoyed groan as she rubs her face with both hands, already having strong suspicions of why the couple would decide to wake her up, despite the time of night. “I was having a nice dream, uncle,” She laments while sitting on the mattress, noticing through the corner of her eye how Silgryn’s brows furrow in concern. “A _nice_ dream, I said. Stop looking at me like that,” Arluin, still standing at the door, shifts his weight in apparent uneasiness, but she pays no mind to her uncle’s lover just yet. “Would the two of you at least let me dress up before talking about whatever it is that it’s making you so itchy?”

Silgryn rolls his eyes yet obliges with a dismissing flick of his wrist. “Bah. Have it your way, but hurry up and meet us at the table,” Gently pushing his lover towards the exit, he glances over his shoulder, “It’s important, Mylie, so chop chop!” He claps his hands twice insistently, doing an exaggerated flick of his wrist and a mocking reverence before closing the door and leaving her alone.

After an annoyed huff, Mylenne strides to the wardrobe, grabbing some casual trousers and a light long shirt, securing it as she ties her waist up in a leather belt with more laziness than necessary. She can’t help with casting a glance at her night table—a crystal urn with a beautiful, glowing dusk lily shimmering with the moonlight coming from across the window, making her draw a long, tired breath.

With screwing it up what had been one of the best _kal-torai_ of her entire life, she can deal with it, but the mere thought of losing one of her current best friends is more than enough to send her heart aching way too painfully.

_I should talk to him. I must, but… what is there to say? He hates rejection as much as I hate wearing a tiara. Goddess, what should I say?_

Apprehension clings to her, threatening to close her throat as one of the first occupied tables she can see from the first floor happens to be having a couple of Illidan’s closest friends in Suramar, Lothrius and Syrana. However, apparently a tiny spare of luck is on Mylenne’s side, for he’s nowhere to be seen as she walks down the stairs—yet still, her eyes drift everywhere tentatively. She greets them with a shy wave of her hand while her uncle insistently calls her over his table, not so far away from theirs.

Sitting unceremoniously, a pile of heavy books is laid before her eyes, her suspicions confirmed as she rolls her eyes and groans loudly. “You still want me to research this?” Mylenne huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose so to keep herself from snapping at such an early time of the evening. “I’ve told you already: It’s pointless, surely just an anomaly. That’s all there could ever have happ—“

Silgryn takes a seat beside her and interrupts her rant as he lays a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Look, Mylie,” He begins, seemingly summoning all the kindness and patience he can muster, judging by the soft tone of his voice, “I wouldn’t ask you to give these books some readings if I didn’t have some good reasons for doing so,” Her uncle brings a familiar book to their side of the table, elegant black ink reading ‘ _Astral Encyclopedia, Volume 3, by Star Augur Etraeus’_ on the tome, prompting her to open it.

“Before you ask, he’s read that one three times,” Arluin interjects, bringing some cold Moonwell water for the three of them as well as bread and Moonberry jam. “And it’s giving me heavy headaches with how much he keeps talking about it, mumbling and theorizing in bed.”

Mylenne’s about to throw the pile of books to their faces but Arluin’s near puppy face keeps her from doing so, rubbing her face harder in frustration. She certainly has no idea why her uncle had hold an obsession with such a thing—as well as not realizing _why_ she’s quite reluctant to bring that particular night once again—yet perhaps if she obliges, then he’d drop the subject and leave her be.

Dropping her former professor’s book, Mylenne grabs another one related to lunar cycles, searching its pages with some laziness from her part as from knowing that book by memory. “Alright, I’m sure you have a partial knowledge about the cycles of the Moon from our perspective,” She begins, bringing a curious Oculeth to one side of the table, peeking over the page she’s showing, “The Blue Child—our second Moon—doesn’t interfere with the White Lady, as it’s the Sun which causes the sightings we tend to see regularly. However, the Blue Child also hides from sight when on a New Moon,”  

Tapping the page for all to see, Mylenne continues, “The phases are always the same: From a New Moon, to a waxing crescent, then showing further to a waxing gibbous and forming a Full Moon. Then waning once again to form another New Moon and so forth,” Everyone in the table nods earnestly, appearing to get what she’s explaining. “The Blue Child always hides behind the White Lady when a _Nal’dore_ is on course… although what you’ve seen could have been a _very strange_ conjunction between the two Moons,” She sighs heavily, not feeling up to fuel Silgryn’s odd obsession with that event, however, not helping with making the best theory she can come up with.

“A conjunction? How so?” It’s Oculeth who wonders right then, leaning on the table with evident interest, pale ears tilting upwards. “Perhaps a… _reflection_ from the Blue Child, causing the Moon to be shining as if a _Nal’dore_ weren’t happening?”

“Yeah, kind of. That’s the closest thing I can come up with,” Mylenne agrees with a reluctant tilt of her head, “But then again, we’re definitely discussing an anomaly, and that’s very far away from my field of expertise,” She remarks, giving her uncle a knowing look so to see if he’d finally drop the subject.

A spark of navy hair captures Mylenne’s eye, glancing at the only Sorceress in the bar, her sour mood easing momentarily at the wholeheartedly laugh Syrana appears to send to her partner on her table. Somehow, it brings her back to her early nights back at Suramar Observatory; Syrana’s laugh quite similar and genuine to her astrologer colleague, Jarin.

_The Starweave sisters are very lucky to have Lothrius and Jarod with them. At least someone’s having it good in this mess of an Embrace._

Mylenne’s neck tilts up all in a sudden, blinking twice and causing her closest companions to flinch in surprise. _Jarin… the beginning of a new Embrace… what did Etraeus use to say?_

Her hand brushes over the Star Augur’s tome while she stands from her seat rather abruptly. “’ _The Moons align and so the stars wax…’”_ Mylenne quotes her former professor’s words in a murmur, merely a whisper, still processing her thoughts as her feet lead her to the next table, meeting two familiar and smiling faces.

It gets difficult to start talking with her mind racing and spinning with many theories at once, Mylenne’s gaze glued to the pretty and faintly sparkling golden in Syrana’s eyes, mouth opening and closing—probably looking like a fish out of the water.

Syrana stares back, her smirk not faltering. “About time you decided to step up and look at us in the eye, milady,” The silky tone of the Sorceress' voice helps with bringing Mylenne back to the realm of the living, shaking her head slightly so to brush it off, violet ponytail waving softly.

“So…” Mylenne taps a finger to her chin, making her best to come up with some words, “You were also present in that lunar event Silgryn is becoming so obsessed with, right?” Syrana nods matter-of-factly, not appearing to be giving it the importance Mylenne does, “Alright, that’s good, that’s good…” Rearranging some of her thoughts, she leans further on the table, “Do you happen to know something about constellations?”

The Sorceress’ head tilts to the side, seemingly sparking some interest. “Well, I do happen to have some astrologer acquaintances,” She admits with a casual shrug, “But in short, I haven’t the slightest idea, dear. Why?”

Mylenne hums in acknowledgment—she actually hadn’t been expecting for Syrana to have knowledge of star charts, although asking wouldn’t hurt anyone—a better idea striking upon her. Holding up an index finger in the universal sign for wait, she strides to the front table where three _dorei_ are still apparently trying to figure her out, returning to the Sorcerers’ booth with Etraeus’ tome hastily.

Prompting Lothrius to give her some spare space on the table, she spreads the book open and rapidly goes to the page 145, where a set of constellations and star charts from Embrace 23:0 and so forth begin to be explained. Syrana seems to be unable to contain her curiosity, leaning closer to watch the examples shown in the paper. “These are the most remarkable appearances of constellations you could’ve seen, given the time of night. Do any of them ring a bell to you?” Mylenne asks her, turning the pages slowly for the Sorceress to see.

Syrana’s navy brows knit in a frown as she obliges with her request, sneering from time to time as Mylenne keeps showing her more pictures of sightings. At page 149, her features change into slight shock, “Oh…” Her fingers catch Mylenne’s wrist, prompting her to stop, Syrana’s forehead creasing further in apparent thought. “Well, indeed, this one does. What you guys call ‘The Path’,”

That particular constellation makes Mylenne hum in deep thought. “It makes sense,” She’s inclined to admit before waving a hand forward to the bar’s window, prompting Syrana to follow her there. “Do you happen to remind from this point of view _where_ did The Path point out?”

The Sorceress doesn’t appear to remember that properly, leaning further over the window yet shaking her navy head in a sad manner a minute later. “Well, I do…” Silgryn’s remark makes the women jump slightly as he comes to stand behind them, hands on his back, “It pointed _directly_ to the two of you,” He affirms, glancing sideways at Mylenne.

She snorts in return, “Now _that’s_ impossible. Did you hit your head this evening, uncle?”

Silgryn just ignores her scolding, “I also recall this was the star chart you and the Star Augur sighted and later altered in the recordings. One of your first sightings with Etraeus, isn’t it?” Mylenne can’t help but nod in acknowledgment—remarkably so, she couldn’t ever retort her uncle and his perfect memory, and apparently, it doesn’t seem to be a proper moment to start right then. “When was it? Embrace 28:1, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, but still. That can’t be right,” She insists, tapping at the window as she points at the incoming starry sky above, “As poetic and a wonderful telltale that might be, The Path always points to the _Moon_ , not to the _ground,_ ”

Oculeth and Lothrius join in with mugs in hand, everyone gathering around the window as if there’s something interesting to see outside. “Or perhaps Silgryn is not that as far ahead as it sounds and the sighting was indeed pointing at _a Moon_.” Her uncle’s friend raises an index finger as if trying to prove an odd theory, staring at the group in surprise when nobody appears to understand where he is going with his remark, “Oh, come on! You can’t tell me you’ve ever heard about the _Jai’dore_ and _Kelim’dore,_ the first of our kind who populated the land. It’s one of the most popular—“

 _“Children_ stories…” A familiar baritone voice interrupts Oculeth’s slight rant, sending a shiver down Mylenne’s spine with the definitely disapproving tone, hesitating to turn around and face the newcomer.

A tense silence falls over the group as Illidan approaches them, her gaze—as well as her heart, although Mylenne does her best for anyone not to notice that—dropping to the floor while a sense of sheer guilt courses through her, feeling her throat closing. Her uncle appears to be the first to feel the discomfort in the air, tsking in some annoyance. “Bah, nonsense,” Silgryn then huffs, “The tale of the Sun and the Moon is one of the best stories ever written! Here, let’s get back to my table and I’ll tell you all about it…”

As her uncle claps Syrana and Lothrius on the shoulders in an evident sign to get on the move, Mylenne sends a nearly panicked glare at him as subtly as she can, yet all she achieves is a small giggle from Syrana’s part. Lothrius clears his throat as if to cover that up, although nobody seems to be up to remain there any longer—even Oculeth obliging with his friend, scratching the back of his neck as he joins the group at the front table, leaving Mylenne alone at the window.

She has no idea how long it goes by before Illidan speaks up. “So… the rumors are true, I suppose?” Mylenne has a certain suspicion _which one_ of the many rumors hanging around these last nights is he talking about, but no matter how much she tries, she can’t really bring up the subject nor figure out a reply—the silence around them turning absurdly awkward. For the matter, Illidan just opts for remarking instead of dropping it. “You broke up with Hargo?”

There’s a slight demanding tone in his voice, as if he’s not up to leave without a proper answer, although it’s not like she doesn’t owe him that much. _Or everything, for all the headaches I’d have probably given him these years._ “I—yes... I did,” Mylenne manages to voice out, shoulders slumping down after a long, tired sigh. “I'm guessing Syrana told you,”

Illidan appears partially satisfied, uncrossing his arms and shifting his weight on his other hip, “Surprisingly, not this time,” He points out with an amused snort, “Lothrius told me. He's been on shift with him for the past month,” Tentatively, he leans beside the window—if to get on her line of sight or just try to look casual, Mylenne can’t tell—brows knitting and dark forehead creasing as he seems to choose his words very carefully. “Um, are you—”

Her tongue acts up on its own. “I've missed you…” Mylenne croaks, eyes widening briefly and a silly blush creeping up her cheeks, clearing her throat so to cover that up. “I mean, _we've all missed you_ , and Sil has been so annoyingly dense without you or Hargo around. And Oculeth’s been asking—”

Illidan reaches for her arm and she nearly flinches away with the contact—an all-familiar tingle running across her extremities as if electricity. “Stop rambling.” Their eyes meet by accident but his features soften the very first second he looks at her in the eye. “I've missed you too, Mylie,” A little sad smile clings to his handsome face momentarily, yet his hard frown disappears completely, “I just figured out you may be needing some, um, alone time. I needed that as well,” His head slightly tilts to the side as if seeming inclined to admit that, somehow turning pensive.

Her gaze falls to the ground just as her heart, sheer remorse coursing through her, managing to close her throat and making her eyes glossy. “All I know is that I hurt you again, and I can't apologize for that enough,” As much as Mylenne would appreciate the comfort of her friend’s touch, she leans away from him, not feeling worthy of such luxury. Illidan should be throwing a rant at her, not acting as incredibly kind and understanding as he’d grown up to do with her. “... As much as it's been very complicated to forgive myself for doing so,”

His behavior towards her genuinely throws her off, for it’s not common for a _dorei_ like Illidan to be inclined to giving second chances; the mere exception Mylenne can come up with being his twin, Malfurion. And even with that, she knows the Stormrage brothers aren’t still on the best of terms. And yet, there he is, willing to make amends and allowing her to atone for—as everybody surely believes so— _toying_ with him.

She’s not worthy of him in the slightest—not as a friend, not as… _anything_ , for the matter—and she’s so conscious of that it makes her heart shrink in shame, sending her shoulders down furthermore and hugging herself, not daring to meet his eyes nor face the disappointment that must be surely plastered all over his features. When Illidan draws a very long, tired sigh, Mylenne readies herself in an act of reflex, nails digging into her skin.

Through her periphery, she can see his jaw clenching and unclenching, seemingly hesitating to voice his thoughts out in the open. “I forgive you,” Those three words make Mylenne’s breath hitch, neck craning to meet his face once again and eyes widening, nearly not believing what she’d just heard. “Under one condition, however,” Illidan raises an index finger before her, serious as ever.

“I'll be having a week off work in a couple of months. If you promise me you'll keep up with your word of visiting Eldarath with me, then we're good.” He leans more nonchalantly against the wall, looking more confident— _smug_ even, crossing his arms again as if daring her to make a retort. “Oh, and at least one lullaby when we’d be camping. And probably brushing my hair in the evenings,”

Violet brows quirk up in amusement, her gut stopping its painful twisting and clenching as she keeps her stare on him, trying to figure him out for a fleeting moment, then realizing he’s really meaning that. “Is that all?” Mylenne can’t help but jest back, the corner of her mouth curving upwards.

Illidan just shrugs, “I can brush yours in exchange. Not like I’d say no if you ask for it,” He admits, his mouth also curving up in a knowing smirk.

Tentatively—yet also with sheer curiosity from her part—Mylenne stretches her hand to him, prompting Illidan to take it; If to make proper amends or so to see if he’s willing to at least grip her back, leaving it up to him to decide.

When he instead pulls her hand further close and encircles her shoulders with an arm, prompting her to take his waist, a sigh full of relief escapes her lips, head resting on his bare chest as she hugs him with all the gratefulness in the world, not even worrying about hurting him in her embrace.

“Then Shareh will be utterly pleased,” Mylenne mumbles to his chest as they both stare lazily at the starry sky before them from across the window, the night sheltering them both from the giggles and funny gossips behind their backs.

* * *

“... And the Mother Moon knew Her daughters wouldn't stand a chance in this uncharted world merely on their own, nor they would be able to fight back the all-consuming void,” Silgryn continues, gesturing almost exaggeratedly as he regularly tends to do so while sharing one of his many tell-tales, “And so, She called upon the Father Sun to summon his _Kelim’dore_ , the mighty guardians of the skies, and protect Her brethren from the dangers of the universe…”

Mylenne takes a gulp of Moonberry juice and relaxes further in her booth; Illidan and Lothrius seated on each side, the latter supporting his head with a fist, looking like the most bored one of the group. “Each _Kelim'dore_ was assigned to a _Jai’dore_ by the Sun and Moon themselves, and a soothing, near blinding light would shine upon them both, matching their Mother’s when they eventually found each other,” Her uncle’s eyes meet hers momentarily, yet he doesn’t seem inclined to interrupt his tale. “It's also rumored their hearts encompassed one another's when they did so—an evident sign that would bring them together to populate the land and spend the rest of eternity as mates, each other's halves.”

From her periphery, she notices Illidan leaning his elbows on the table, something regarding Silgryn’s tale apparently catching his interest; a spark of curiosity crossing his golden gaze, but only briefly, disappearing after the next blink. “One of them kept their vigil over their world as the other had their rest, the very same as the Mother Moon and the Father Sun as they currently take each other's places—forever in guard, watchful against the dangers of the Void that would, in the eventual time, reach and threaten to consume them all.”

A thoughtful whistle brings the group’s attention to the other side of the table, “Huh. That certainly brings up some memories,” Syrana looks inclined to admit, her usually golden gaze then turning dull, nostalgic. Silgryn tilts his head to the side in a mix of concern and curiosity, prompting her to continue, “Well, father used to tell Shala and me how our _Min’da_ looked as beautiful as the Moon each time his eyes happened to lay on her,”

Besides Mylenne, Illidan glares at Syrana, “Near fifty years of knowing each other and you never told me that,” He sounds nearly offended, judging by the tone of his voice.

Syrana merely sends him a knowing look, “In my defense, dear Lid, you never asked,” She dismisses his remark, brushing her navy mane off her shoulders in a nonchalant manner and returning to her previous line of conversation, “Father told us he felt his heart kind of… _switching_ , changing, as if returning to a not-as-familiar sort of beat the moment _Min’da_ passed away,” The Sorceress sneers a bit as if not finding the proper words to explain it, yet it’s clear she’s trying as much.

“You mean when Nyellus found out about his lifemate?” Silgryn wonders after taking a sip of his ale, Mylenne’s face scrunching in near disgust for a split second—how her uncle manages to get on drinking alcohol that early in the evening, she has no idea, but it’s not appealing in the slightest.

“Not exactly, I meant the _very exact moment_ she perished,” The only Sorceress in the bar remarks with a flick of her heavily adorned wrist, “He was tending Shala to sleep when he had that feeling. I can't really tell how, but with that sort of hunch, he said he just _knew_ something happened to her.” Her pretty golden eyes fall to her untouched mug, a heavy mix of sadness and longing plastered on her handsome face. “He described it like… a sense of deep _emptiness_ within, like a part of him withering and dying; and at the same time as a feeling he couldn't compare with anything in the world, except for a certain time of his youth when he hadn't met her.”

Mylenne’s eyes can’t help with drifting to Illidan’s deeply pensive face, not staring back and appearing quite lost in his thoughts. Her hand reflexively reaches for his so to bring him out of his reverie, although all she accomplishes are for his golden gaze to stare intensely on their intertwined fingers, nearly enraptured, cobalt brows knitting harder. She mouths his name as subtly as she can; however, their linked hands also bring her that unwanted reminder of that gleeful warmth that filled her that exact moment when, some months back, Illidan leaned down and…

_No, that’s enough. It’s just a children’s tale. I should leave these silly fantasies for a moment when I’m not awake and lucid. Better to have that to fight the nightmares rather than having other faces from the past haunting me._

She has seen Illidan abruptly drifting away for the past few years, a sense of sheer worry coursing through her each time his mind seemed to travel far away from the realm of the living; the handsome gleam of his eyes suddenly _freezing_ for longer than fairly healthy, prompting her to do something to bring him back to the present—to bring him back to _her,_ even when she feels not as selfish to admit that out in the open.

Thankfully so, there’s a small intake of breath before Illidan’s taken back to the current moment, his golden eyes boring into her silver ones, his intensity accompanied with a sort of gratefulness from his part—as if he figured out what she was trying to do all along, no words needed as one corner of his mouth curves up in a thankful smile.

The rest of the group is engrossed in their own theories regarding Silgryn’s tale, prompting Mylenne to grasp the chance as she has it, leaning closer to his ear, not letting go of his hand. “Want to talk about it?” She says softly, not wanting to push the subject further if Illidan doesn’t really want to. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you like this, Lid. Should I be worried or…?”

“Please, don’t be,” Illidan sends a nervous shake of his head her way, lips pursing in a mix of concern and hesitation. “I’m just… processing all this, that’s all,”

She rests her other hand over his, “It’s just a _children_ story, like you said,” Mylenne insists, smiling in reassurance as she faces him fully, “Don’t wrap your head around it, there’s no sense in doing that,”

A tsk from his part follows, although Illidan’s eyes roam all over her face afterwards, seemingly searching for something—or perhaps just trying to reorganize his thoughts, Mylenne can’t really tell. A violet brow quirks up in question, yet he takes his sweet time in replying. “That’s precisely what I’m wondering,” He murmurs, more to himself than to her, “Is it really _just_ a story? I mean… _arane,_ this is stupid,” His gaze falls in a mix of embarrassment and something Mylenne can’t really place, feeling his hand squeezing hers briefly. “I think I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore,”

Sheer worry pools around Mylenne’s gut, searching for his face once again, not bothering if she’s accidentally prompting the group’s attention to the two of them. “Hey, Illidan, look at me,” She cradles his cheek, encouraging him to return his eyes to her, “ _This_ is real. _I am_ real, and I am here,” Having a strong suspicion of what’s troubling her friend that much, she dares to voice it in the open, “Your dreams _aren’t_ real, you hear me? Whatever you’ve heard and witnessed in your dreams, it’s not true and most likely won’t ever be,”

Illidan’s breath hitches ever so slightly at her last words, a dull gleaming full of sadness and concern crossing his eyes. “So you… _dream_ too?” Mylenne just nods, yet doesn’t feel like remarking every _dorei_ with a bare amount of magic within them must have, at least once, traveled to the Azure realm in their sleep. And even when it’s not worth mentioning that, she must admit she’s not that attuned to that dreadful realm as much as Illidan surely is, given how skillful and more _dependent_ to the arcane he’s known to be.

“But… what if I want some dreams to be real?” He then wonders, somehow sounding kind of shy, doubting what he’s voicing out in the open, “What does that make me?”

Confusion strikes her, not knowing what to say, a surge of new ponderings crossing her mind. “I… I guess it depends on what you want to be real,” It’s the best Mylenne can come up with, noticing she’s still holding his face after Illidan leans over her palm ever so subtly, somehow unable to let him go, “What is that, if I may ask?”

The sadness in his face gets brushed away in a split second, something close to _hope_ taking place in his handsome features. “Don’t you know it already?” Illidan wonders, cobalt brows knitting in apparent suspicion.

However, Mylenne can’t come up with a reply after, a moment later, the bar’s doors bang open, her friend Jarod striding inside hastily, followed by an alarmed Hargo’then—the latter having the decency of closing the doors not as abruptly. Their faces are hard as stone as they approach the table, although instead of greeting the group, the younger Shadowsong goes directly to Silgryn’s side.

Jarod pulls a letter from his open jacket, near slamming it before Silgryn; Mylenne’s eyes going wide after catching a glance of the seal—the Stareye sigil engraved on it.

“We have to talk, Silgryn. Now.”

* * *

While a good bunch of _dorei_ takes over her room to have what’s looking forward to being a heated discussion, Mylenne doesn’t feel like having a say in the matter, closing the door so to have some proper privacy.

“The gathering is scheduled for the next Full Moon. I’m afraid we don’t have much time to come up with something,” Hargo announces, returning Lord Desdel Stareye’s letter to their owner after the group gives it a quick reading, a nasty frown narrowing his handsome face.

Turning two thousand years old had given her father an advantage and, as it turns out, he’d been very quick with seizing the opportunity as it came. With Mylenne having a proper age to claim a lifemate, Lord Desdel apparently didn't bother to wait any longer before scheduling a meeting at the Lunastre Estate, surely to bring his daughter and her intended husband before the Duchess for her approval.

Her uncle looks like wanting to set her room on fire, for the matter. “What in Elune’s tits was I thinking?” Silgryn growls, nearly breaking Mylenne’s window as he lands a heavy fist on the glass, startling everyone but Arluin. “We shouldn’t have been staying as idle as we did. I knew he wouldn’t stay with arms crossed for so long!” His head bangs heavily against the glass, drawing a frustrated sigh.

Mylenne sends a hard frown his way, feeling her uncle is just voicing nonsense. “You shouldn’t take this personal. This isn’t your fault, father’s planned it for decades,” Her lips purse in sadness as she drops a hand over Silgryn’s shoulder, trying somehow to soothe his ire.

Surprisingly so, her uncle doesn't take her offer of comfort as she expected. “Are you kidding me? All of this is my fault!” Silgryn barks, flinching away from her as if she bears something contagious, “I should have done more, pull more strings and take you away from here. You can’t be thrown into the filthy _quel_ den as if a ragdoll and oblige to their fucking demands just like that!” He pinches his hard nose while pacing in the room, seemingly grounding himself before saying something harsher, “Mylie… I made a vow to protect and take care of you and in my selfishness and senseless needs, I failed to do so. It _is_ my fault,”

Regardless of their family ties and duties, Mylenne finds a certain serenity when he, at least, admits his selfishness in the matter. However, she can't bring herself to have hard feelings against her uncle, even when he'd spent centuries so far away yet so close altogether. In the end, Silgryn just did what he could with what he had, and not even she can blame him for his choices.

Luckily, Jarod is the first one to intervene, “And you really would have taken your Household on your shoulders merely to keep us free from the Highborne’s noble game?” His arms are crossed tight, a hard frown narrowing his face as he watches her uncle pace restlessly, “Myl is right. It wouldn’t have been fair for you, Silgryn,”

In between Silgryn’s agitated stride, Mylenne unconsciously follows Hargo’s glued eyes, her gaze catching the dusk lily peacefully shimmering on her night table, her heart dropping to the floor as a sense of shame courses through her. Somehow, she can’t help with returning to her previous ponderings—to the _choices_ she and her family have made, and how they’ve inextricably affected their loved ones as the years went by.

“Did you just listen? _I made a vow,_ Jarod.” Silgryn repeats, facing him with a very hard glare, “I promised I’d atone and mend all the damage that Aedriel did. I made it my very _purpose,”_ A glimpse of grief flashes across his silver gaze, turning away, “Instead, I failed and didn’t claim what’s been mine from the beginning. Even left the _sart_ of Mylenne’s father to rule and make the decisions for us, merely because I didn’t want anything to do with our family anymore,”

He ends up dropping unceremoniously on Mylenne’s mattress, his voice so low she nearly can’t hear him, “I’d love to say otherwise but at the end of the night, I’m the first one to blame. I should have listened to my sister and taken charge of my Household as she always intended. Not let her legacy to be ruined just like this…”

Somehow, the image of her uncle as patriarch of House Stareye makes Mylenne scrunch her nose, feeling it odder than she’d have thought. Are Silgryn and she really coping with the consequences of their _own_ choices or has it always been due to the decisions Mylenne’s parents and siblings always made for them? In truth, she can’t really say something would have been different if they’ve taken another path in life, or resigned to their wishes so to keep their family safe, but thinking about how _tied_ they both are to what’s been done in the past is even worse.  

“None of this is fair for any of us, for the matter,” Mylenne sighs heavily, shoulders dropping, “But there’s nothing we can do about it right now. What we did or didn’t do in the past doesn’t matter anymore,” Arluin and Jarod nod in strong agreement, the former returning his attention to the dozens of letters he’s received from his little birds afterwards.

Hargo speaks when the room falls silent, “If I’m allowed to make a comment, let me say I believe you still can turn this in your favor,” His voice sounds certain and secure, unlike the rest of _dorei_ in her room, hands clasped behind his back, “Jarod may be a very valuable asset if you both intend to bring Lord Stareye down and take over your Household. Have you thought about that?”

Jarod merely snorts at the comment, “I appreciate the thought, Officer, but Lord Desdel has the upper hand when it comes to what’s best for his Household. Besides, Duchess Lunastre listens to his opinion, not Mylenne’s,” He admits with a frustrated sneer, “And I believe you know what happens to those who don’t play the Game properly. Silgryn here is a very nice example of that…”

An insistent knock on the door brings the attention of the whole group, a definitely concerned Illidan striding inside after Arluin allows him in. “Syrana got a letter and left in a rush. Can anyone tell me what’s going on?”

As he stares directly at Mylenne, surely waiting for a reply from her part, she feels her throat closing, unable to keep his gaze as guilt courses through her. If she’d have told Illidan about her marriage straight on and from the beginning, perhaps many things would have been easier to handle.

_But then, he probably wouldn’t have stuck with me all these years…_

From her periphery, she notices Silgryn tilting his head, partially lost in thought, “It depends. You happen to have some… _infiltration_ skills, lad?” He says somehow skeptical, as if considering his options. “You know, another weird magic trick under your sleeve?”

For Mylenne’s frustration, Illidan’s quick in joining in whatever her uncle seems to be currently scheming, a smug smirk showing on his face as he leans on one hip, arms crossed. “We’re getting someone out of the dungeons again?”

Out of instinct, the only woman in the room steps in between Illidan and Silgryn, sending the latter a warning look. “I don’t like where this is going, Sil…”

Jarod appears to wholeheartedly agree with her concerns, facing Mylenne’s uncle with wide open eyes, “You must be kidding us,” He growls, “Nearly the whole Rooksguard will be flooding the Estate. Even General Ravencrest and his daughter will be attending!”

When Silgryn merely replies with a growing wicked grin, Mylenne feels like slapping him on the face for such atrocious thought. “I can get us in,” Hargo intervenes, stepping on their line of sight so to gather the group's attention, “If the Great Houses and their vassals are also invited as it seems, they’ll certainly bring some of the Moonguard with them as well,” He then points at Illidan with his chin, “Mooncaller and him can blend in with the Astravars in my stead while I get through the back entrance,”

Arluin clasps his hands eagerly, “Sounds like a plan!” He agrees, bringing up a parchment with what looks like a list of names and giving it a quick glance, “Some of my birds will be working at the kitchens, they can open a couple of doors for us. I can get on it right away, actually,”

As Hargo and her uncle nod in approval, Mylenne grabs Arluin by the arm before he takes his leave, “Elune, this is pure madness! You can’t be serious, Sil!” She shouts, trying to make Silgryn—and the rest of the men in the room, for the matter—appeal to reason, “There has to be—“

Silgryn stands up abruptly and leans closer to Mylenne’s face, gaze burning with sheer fury, “Has to be _what_? Another way?” He says ironically, making Illidan and Arluin push him away from her, “If you have something better to propose, then tell us about it. Otherwise, step aside and let me do what I should have done _centuries_ ago,”

Silgryn’s rant prompts Illidan to look at him with a confused frown, letting him go as well, “Hold on a second. Who's the target?”

Another wicked grin forms on her uncle’s face, wiggling his eyebrows at Illidan. “The newly appointed Commander of the Rooksguard, Lord Desdel Stareye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been utter _hell_ lately, leaving me on the verge of giving up for good this time, but oh well, guess I couldn't.   
>  Happy new year to you all and, as always, my thanks and my whole heart goes to those ones who are still sticking with me and my boys. Not gonna say you're saving my life but... yeah, you are.


	26. Sever the Bond (Lunastre Estate Pt. I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their way out of the bar and to the Astravars, Illidan can’t help with turning to look behind his shoulder, wide-eyed; Silgryn Stareye’s figure going smaller and ever so still, a calm yet resolute look narrowing his lavender face before he disappears completely behind the cerulean trees of Suramar’s outskirts. 
> 
> His breath catches between his teeth as he turns to face the road. Just what on Elune’s sake did he agree on?

** Darnassian: **

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

 **Quel / Quel’dorei:**  Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.

 **Sar’thera:**  A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating. Slang:  **Sart(e).**

 **Shan'do:**  Honored Teacher.

 **Elune-adore:**   “Elune be with you”, works as a greeting and a farewell.

* * *

** Stormrage **

He wouldn't voice it in the open if not asked for in the first place, yet Illidan doesn't feel exactly surprised to hear Silgryn attempting to take his final straw in that never-ending war of schemes, lies and deceptions that seemed to surround the entirety of House Stareye for centuries, if not _thousands_ of years already.

In fact, he’s inclined to _encourage_ it; even with Mylenne’s—understandable, yet hopeless at that moment—near outrage towards the situation.

He may be an orphan with a brother as the only family left, but Illidan is damn sure if he'd be in Mylenne's shoes, he'd gladly end that pretense of a parent with his bare hands if needs be. If there’s any breaking point for him, that’s becoming a pawn for someone else’s mere profit, family or not be damned.

A gleam of a certain deviltry reflects on Silgryn's gaze as he keeps staring at him, a set of sharp teeth showing behind his pleasant grin when he searches Illidan’s face and finds he’s pretty much fine with his crazy plan; no words needed for, probably, the first time ever.

However, the youngest of the Stareyes serve as a sheer contrast of their silent agreement, throwing her hands in the air. “Do you listen to yourself or is there some switch in your head that turns off and on and makes you not to?” Mylenne barks, wiping off her uncle's smug face as quickly as it came in the first place.

“Why, excuse me?” Silgryn shoots an incredulous look at his niece, fists clenching, “You think I’m happy with this? You think I’m _enjoying_ it?”

“Yes, you totally seem like!” She counters, looking determined in not stepping back, the usually soothing of her silver eyes then blazing with fury, “It’s my father you’re talking about! Your Goddess damned brother-in-law!” Mylenne’s remark comes with a frustrated punch on her uncle’s chest, prompting Silgryn to take a step backwards with the motion—and some surprise as well. “He’s _family_! You can’t just—“

“It’s _precisely_ because of that!” With some impressive reflexes—even for Illidan—Silgryn grabs his niece by the wrist as fast as the blink of an eye before she intends to land a third punch, leaning dangerously close to her, “Family doesn’t _torture_ their loved ones over wealth and power!” He snarls, lavender face contorted in anger, nearly daring the rest of the group to face him if they happen to have the guts to do so, “They don’t keep their children or mate locked up to do their biddings. They certainly don’t beat them up if they don’t do so!”

Illidan’s stomach churns in indignation, holding back a growl, blood boiling up through his veins at the confirmation of what Mylenne really endured in her mysterious monthly absences and always kept strangely hidden. The same poisonous feeling clamps up in his throat as well, for he’s aware that, somehow, has always ended up giving the Stareye patriarch the benefit of the doubt when it came to be something related to his daughter.

_How can you blame yourself, though? Most likely everyone would shrug it off if word on the street came about Lord Stareye sauntering off another brothel, but something like that? Not even Lothrius would bet on that, and he always tends to bet on the most ridiculous things…_

What he can assume from all this is, Lord Desdel might have been a simple warrior surrounded by powerful Sorcerers and prodigious tricksters, but at the end of the night, he’s the one who overcame them all and ended up becoming the most _charming_ of the Stareyes.

No wonder why Silgryn hates him so much—although it’s, at the same level, pretty concerning his daughter doesn’t realize that just yet.

Edging closer to Mylenne and getting on Silgryn’s line of sight so to keep him from a further outburst, the latter merely glares at Illidan, although has the decency of letting his niece go, drawing a long sigh afterwards. “Family cares about each other and goes through whatever means necessary to keep them safe. Do you really think I see my so-called brother-in-law as that? After what he did and keeps doing to all of us?” Silgryn ponders, a slight sort of begging slipping through his voice.

Surprisingly so, Mylenne pushes Illidan away, startling the rest of the men with her erratic behavior. “Stop, _stop!_ I can’t take this anymore, Silgryn!” She snaps, angrier and upset than ever before, sending a sense of apprehension through him, “You have to stop being so obsessed with the past! None of us can change it!”

“The past!? You _dare—”_ Ever the stubborn, Silgryn doesn’t look like relenting by a mere inch, their discussion quickly turned into a shouting match, prompting the rest to stand there with an odd mix of concern and uncomfortableness altogether. “All I’ve done was for the _future_ of our Household. A future for _you_ , Mylenne,” Hargo’then makes a subtle attempt to push the Stareyes away, yet Silgryn brushes the boy away as if an annoying bug, standing to his full height. “I’m merely doing all I can for him not to ruin and break the only good thing that’s left of our cursed family!”

Mylenne doesn’t show a slight inch of intimidation, sending a full-heated glare that would probably make the wildest of beasts shy away from her—the twisted voice endlessly whispering dark thoughts on Illidan’s mind then basking in the view. _Ha! The good apple never falls off too far from the tree, you see that now? She’s just as rotten as the rest of her family! Oh, I adore this side of her…_

“As if!” She barks back, the magic within her dangerously flaring to life, sheer worry overtaking Illidan’s senses as he quickly recalls the last time he saw that happening, the hideous voice in his mind flickering off in an instant. “I never asked for you to do that! Why can’t you leave me the hell alone!?”

Her uncle gapes at her incredulously, pretty much looking like he’s about to tear his hair off. “How the fuck can you think I can just sit here with arms crossed and pretend everything’s alright when I’m about to endure seeing the only _dorei_ I have left being thrown into the _quel_ den and set up on that pathetic pretense of a—“

“ _Silgryn._ ”

Hargo’s voice crosses the room as merely a whisper, yet somehow it makes Silgryn turn to him, snapping his mouth shut a moment later. The palpable tension in the air partially dissipates while the two of them just stare at each other in silence, a slight purplish glow flashing on the Officer’s eyes, the rest of the group frowning in evident confusion. A shocking look crosses Silgryn’s face, frozen still for what seems like an eternity, _hypnotized_ , eyes darting all over Hargo as if searching something—strangely enough, as if a confusion spell has been thrown on him.

Mylenne crosses her arms as her uncle’s face pales and Illidan feels taken aback by the abrupt change in his demeanor. However, he doesn’t get a chance to ask what’s in his mind before a pair of dull silver eyes find his, looking at Illidan’s face as if it’s the first time he ever sees him in his life.

_Uh? What’s wrong with him?_

He staggers a little at Silgryn’s surprised stare, cobalt brows cinching and blinking repeatedly before his gaze finally lands on Mylenne. “… Why did you keep them out?” Silgryn asks her in a very thin voice, barely able to make up a proper sentence, his shoulders slumping down and incredulity plastered all over his face.

Mylenne’s eyes grow wide, a flash of a certain realization crossing her bright silver eyes, seemingly lost for words. “I—” She swallows hard, making Illidan beside her tilt his head in sheer confusion. “I just… had to…” Her lavender ears tilt downwards and back, embarrassment brushing away her previous blazing, fierce anger at a moment’s notice. 

“Is that so? So much for boasting about family, and you leave the _real ones_ out?” Their shouting seems like completely forgotten as of then, leaving Silgryn to look at her as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing, dark violet brows contorting in sheer disbelief.

The dark voice of Illidan’s conscience comes back to prickle at him, snarling and numbing him with doubt. _Pah! And there she goes, hiding something from you once again. One would believe after all these years she’d stop with the secrecies. And yet, that looks like a family trait…_

Before giving in, Illidan quickly summons the strength to shut down the voice of his thoughts with a hard blink, finding Mylenne’s glinting eyes and searching her tense face for any answer he can manage to take off her. Right when she shies away from his eyes as if ashamed, Silgryn recalls her attention once again. “We need to have a real talk, you and I,”

“Except I don’t want to talk,” Mylenne cuts him off, eyes getting glossy as she evidently fights back some rebel tears, and all Illidan can do is scoot closer to her, drawn by a sudden urge of trying to wipe out that conflict plastered all over her  face, her body language nearly begging for any sense of comfort she can have.

However, his worries and willingness to do so are replaced by a mix of hurt and confusion when Mylenne instantly flinches away from his grasp, “Don’t drag them into this, Silgryn. I already know how that ‘talk’ is going to turn out,” Mylenne frowns, jaw clenching and nostrils flaring in apparent frustration, “You’ll be going once again with my so-called mother’s legacy, with your attempts to make amends, and with how you or I are supposed to rule over our Household instead of an impostor because she just said so. And you know what? I don’t want to hear about it anymore!”

A somber silence falls over them all as the only woman in the room paces nervously, looking torn between leaving or keep enduring that already exhausting conversation. She apparently can’t help with drawing a tiny sob, yet is quick with rubbing her face so to swallow the tears threatening to fall down. “I let my mother go for a long time. You have to do the same, Silgryn… you _must_ …” Mylenne adds, almost imploring.

 _She certainly has a point there_ , the voice within Illidan resurges, his mouth curling into a sneer as he silently admits the same. Not like he’d say it in the open—it’s not his place, after all—but Mylenne’s right: Silgryn’s obsession over Aedriel Stareye has been the main reason why he’s got them down spiraling into all sorts of trouble. From spying over everyone to spending centuries wandering around the Empire looking for something nobody can be sure if even himself knows what it is in the first place to, if accidentally, put his niece in danger along the way; everything Silgryn has ever done had his late sister at the end of the line.

And most of all, for _what_? Just to atone for the past? To have a guiltless sleep at the end of the night?

“So… That’s it? You’re just giving up?” The elder Stareye keeps as incredulous as ever before, looking near shocked with each word his niece says, “You’re going to throw away your life and oblige to your father’s current whim, just like that?” Apparently caught by a sudden fit, Silgryn points at Jarod’s pretty silent form, still leaning against the window, “And what about _his_ future? Have you thought about it?”

Unable to keep his thoughts to himself from much further, Illidan speaks for the first time since Silgryn laid out his grim yet expected plan, “What’s _he_ got to do with all this?” He arches a brow, pointing at Jarod with his chin as he crosses his arms, half demanding a proper answer.

For his offense, Silgryn doesn’t even bother to look at him in the eye, intent on his stare at his niece. “Seems you clearly haven’t thought about any of the _dorei_ in this room, for the matter,” He says harshly, lavender forehead creasing in evident disappointment. “This isn’t only about you and me, can’t you see that, Mylenne? How much more we have to endure your father’s madness before he finally tears all of us apart for good?”

“I understand your outrage, kiddo, believe me…” Arluin appears to summon his guts to finally intercede and stop Mylenne’s erratic pacing, hands on his hips, “I wouldn’t approve something like this on my own blood relatives out of the blue, I get that. But what you think Lord Stareye would do once he gets to escalate further on the nobility ladder? Because these things are now just whims and requests, but once he finally gets a proper place as the Lunastres’ main vassal House, then it’ll be his word against all of us lowborns, don’t you think? And he won’t stop bringing hell on everybody who opposes him, that’s pretty much obvious already…”

Arluin’s remark seems to leave Mylenne to wonder, making her draw a tired sigh as she runs a hand over her violet mane in frustration, her gaze locked on the floor. Silence falls over the room once again before she speaks, exhaustion appearing to wash over her, “All I know is that our family’s been torn apart even before I was born…” She confesses, her voice merely a whisper, “This has gone too far already. How can you really believe taking another of us out will solve anything at this point?”

Silgryn sighs as well, also running a tired hand over his face, “What would you like me to do? Sit here and watch as you, let’s say, take one for the team?” He waves a dismissive hand in the air as if it’s one of the most ridiculous things he’d heard in his life, “That’s pretty dramatic of you, you have to admit that…”

Surprisingly so, something seems to click on Mylenne after that observation, violet brows cinching as she lifts her chin to face her uncle. “If it means no one else will get hurt, then so be it,” She says, resolute, before heading for the door, barely glancing across her shoulder when she turns on the handle, “You keep saying I’m the only good one left of our family, but that’s not true, Silgryn. We’re all rotten on the inside, and I’m no exception.”

Her silver eyes find Illidan among the group before leaving, catching the silent plea he sends her way. “For what is worth, just know I’m _truly_ sorry. But I can’t go on like this... We’ve caused so much damage already,” Mylenne murmurs, lower lip trembling and Illidan’s chest heaving, nearly choking with an overwhelming urge to run over and hold her tightly in his arms—anything to ease that despair washing over her, threatening to take over his senses if he doesn't act on it.

“Mylie… hey—“ It’s all he can mutter, his feet moving on its own accord, not minding in the slightest about the rest of the men in the room, but all Illidan gains is a heavy lump in his throat, his heart falling down to the floor as Mylenne just leaves him behind, not looking back as she slams the door close.

A near deafening silence falls over them once again for what feels like an eternity, a mix of many emotions coursing through him, struggling to at least keeping it together somehow. It's been barely an hour ago when he'd finally made amends with Mylenne after three months apart, making this whole new situation incredibly unfair for the both of them and much more than frustrating. And to add it to the conflict, what’s she sorry for?

_It's surprising you haven't got used to this already, Stormrage. What were you expecting after all?_

An awkward cough from Arluin shuts off the voice of his thoughts. “Well, that could have gone better…”

His lover brushes it off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, a then familiar ice cold mask falling over his face—the one he tends to wear when coming up with another serious scheme. “Pfft, whatever. She'll come around eventually. We have more pressing matters to attend to,” Brushing past Hargo’then, Silgryn procures a plume and a parchment from one of the many pockets of his trousers, sauntering near Arluin and getting ready to work right away.

At the couple’s demeanor, Jarod seems to have reached his limit, removing himself from his perched spot beside the window. “I can't believe you guys. You’re no better than those _quel_ you're standing up against,” Sheer disappointment narrows his face as he too reaches for the door, not bothering to look at any of the remaining _dorei_ on the room. “You know what, I'm out of here,”

“ _What!?_ Are you for real?” Silgryn's bark doesn't seem to get onto the boy, boasting the former to trot on his direction before he leaves, “Song Boy— _Jarod!_ ” He doesn't get to follow Mylie’s friend, however, as Hargo lands a heavy hand on Silgryn's shoulder, merely shaking his head.

Illidan crosses his arms, inclined to agree with Hargo for once, knowing it's probably for the best to let them go for the current moment. “You can't honestly believe they'll be okay with this,” He can't help with giving his two cents, frowning hard at Silgryn's sudden nonsense.

His comment prompts the elder Stareye to stare him down, initiating his stance. “Oh, really? And yet, I'm not seeing you walk out that door, lad,” Arching a sly violet brow, Silgryn doesn't even blink, his gaze unrelenting and daring.

He takes a moment to contemplate the situation. Admittedly so, it’s not that easy to pick a side on the matter, for he’d always choose to support Mylenne, no matter what. Although as of then, it’s certain he can’t just stay with arms crossed when Silgryn and his crew are apparently just giving him the chance of a lifetime to finally end that centuries-long reign of tyranny among House Stareye, once and for all.

Mylenne would most likely end up hating him for going along with Silgryn’s wildest scheme to date, that’s for sure. And yet, he would end up hating himself if something would happen to her and he didn’t take the chance when he had it. What if the Stareyes haven’t truly revealed the reasons behind that shady reunion? It’s not like Illidan really needs another excuse when he’s been _craving_ to snap Lord Desdel’s neck with his bare hands for quite long ago—the mere memory of a bruised and weeping Mylenne making his blood boil up with an all-consuming hatred.  

 _Yes… yes! That’s it! Grasp onto that hatred!_ The dark voice within goads him on, poisonous bile climbing up his throat, jaw clenching as the recollection of that night comes fully onto his memory. _Stay true to who you really are, Stormrage, there’s no use to keep struggling…_

Their conversation clings to his mind as a reminder of what he’d promised back then. _“I’d kill anyone who dares to lay a single finger on you, Mylie. I wouldn’t care if it’s the_ _fucking consort_ _of the Queen, I wouldn’t be thinking twice about it…”_ He’d said that evening, and if he had to admit it, he’s ever been surer of something in his life like then.

 _You hate when she keeps things from you, but who’s doing it now? You_ want _this; you’ve_ yearned _for it for quite a long time._

The corner of Illidan's mouth curves up in a smirk, golden eyes gleaming darkly as he meets Silgryn’s gaze. Under the men’s full scrutiny, his resolve is finally set. “I won’t lie: I've wanted to take that _sart_ down for quite a long time already…” Illidan lifts his chin proudly, his previous doubts brushed away within the next breath, its claws far away to grasp him. “Perhaps you can start telling me what’s on your mind first,”

* * *

**The next Full Moon**

Lothrius shifts uneasily, pretty much unlike his usual easygoing demeanor, running a nervous hand through his midnight blue hair, gleaming in shades of cerulean thanks to the dim sunlight left as dusk begins to set. “Hate to say it, buddy, but I have a veeeeery bad feeling about this,” He repeats for the tenth time in the week, adjusting the hems of his Spellcaster robes so to seemingly do something with his hands. “If we’re to keep guard on the Astravars, I’m not sure if we’re going to have a way out that easily if something goes sideways. And Conjurer Vilessa will be there! She’s ruthless, man! There’s no way she wouldn’t find out—”

Illidan lands a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder, startling him a bit, “Can you calm down for a second?” He says sternly, leaning down on his eye level, “We’ve run through all outcomes a dozen times. It’s too late to turn back just now,”

A more clothed than usual Silgryn walks out the bar to join them right then, Arluin and Oculeth right behind his tracks, the three of them carrying a quite grim face. “Have a little faith in yourself, Slender,” The elder Stareye snorts, adjusting a humble traveling cloak across his shoulders, a recently polished silver blade on his waist glinting briefly before disappearing from view under his robes.

Arluin seems to carry a similar set of blades, handling one to Lothrius and another to Illidan. “Here, this should come in handy if you can’t pull up your fancies. And watch it, they’re poisoned,” Illidan nods in appreciation while latching it on his lower back, careful to keep it hidden under his purple cloak.

“It wouldn’t kill you to keep a watchful eye on Vilessa, though,” Oculeth points out as he brings a hand to the top of the Spellcasters’ heads, casting the usual barriers such as another couple of protective spells over them; a dim purplish-blue light washing over them like raindrops before fading within the next moment. “I trust you’ve already caught the hand of the invisibility spell I taught you, lad?”

Illidan clicks his tongue in nonchalance, “Bah, it wasn’t even hard to begin with,” He reassures his late _Shan’do_ , leaning on one hip in a cocky posture, “Hope you know I’m looking forward to something more challenging next time,”

“And you better keep your pretty head between your shoulders and focus, or there won’t be a next time,” Silgryn glares at him sharply, getting a cackle out of his bald friend. Lothrius, however, gulps and shifts once again, the whole situation appearing to be getting on his nerves.

Arluin recalls the group’s attention the next moment, “Hargo and my birds are already on the hunt as we speak, so you better get moving,” He urges the pair on, bringing them to the backyard where two nightsabers are already saddled and waiting, “I don’t recall Duchess Astravar being pretty lenient with her guards, and she definitely hates to be kept waiting. As are all…” 

Without further ado, Illidan saunters past them, holding onto the metallic collar bound on the saber’s neck, mounting the beast in one swift motion, Lothrius silently following. “Remember, guys: The very first moment you catch Mylie alone, you get her the hell out of there,” Silgryn takes mind to instruct for the thirtieth time or so, patting Illidan’s saber on the cheek before taking a step away, “Be quick about it, and forget about Jarod if needs be. He can take care of himself anyway…”

At first, Illidan hasn’t agreed at once to be assigned in sneaking Mylenne off instead of the main goal they were all working on. However, he’d eventually found some comfort in having her in his sights at all times should the worst come to happen—and, after all, each one had a critical role to play that evening. “Don’t worry. Lothrius will cover me as I slip her out of the Estate,” Illidan’s friend nods sharply in reassurance as he explains. “Meet us at my hiding place?”

Silgryn’s dark lips purse as if involuntarily, but he’s quick in pulling up a calm face in the next moment. “Yep, sure thing,” He doesn’t sound pretty excited about it, turning to leave before seeming to recall something, eyes widening as he searches in his many pockets, “Oh, I almost forgot!” Returning to Illidan’s saddle, he procures two shiny small shards, barely the size of his palm, glinting in shades of a dim violet, “Here, this one’s for Mylie. The second is for you…”

As Silgryn hands them for him to take, Illidan recognizes the tokens instantly, brows knitting in a frown. “Memory shards?” He’d last seen those particular objects back at Stareye Manor’s vault, next to some old and prized possessions from the late Conjurer Aedriel—the powerful arcane magic pulsing on the crystals inevitably throwing him off. “What’s this for, Silgryn?”

For the first time in the evening to arrive, his lavender face softens drastically, the corners of his mouth curling up in a soft smile. “Just some answers to all your questions. Now be a good lad and take them,” Dropping the shards onto his palm, Silgryn carefully closes Illidan’s hand with both of his, something gloomy flashing on his silver gaze, not quite meeting Illidan’s eyes. “I trust you’ll be keeping them safe as much as my niece…” He then whispers somberly, his smile somewhat faltering.

He stays perplexed for a long minute, long ears tilting downwards as, with an elegant wave of his cloak, Silgryn turns on his back and saunters behind the pair of sabers. As much as Illidan thoroughly appreciates the gesture and finally seeming to have a tiny piece of his trust, he can’t help but take his last words as a sort of _farewell_ —not to add the traveling robes he’s wearing.

He couldn’t be possibly intending to leave Suramar, isn’t he? He can’t, though, not when his niece needs him the most. 

When Silgryn casts a sad last glance at him, he gets a very uneasy feeling in his gut, blinking in confusion. “Until we meet again, Illidan…” Ever the proud one, the man doesn’t give him the chance to say something back, slapping the beasts on their backs and prompting them to get on the run.

On their way out of the bar and to the Astravars, Illidan can’t help with turning to look behind his shoulder, wide-eyed; Silgryn Stareye’s figure going smaller and ever so still, a calm yet resolute look narrowing his lavender face before he disappears completely behind the cerulean trees of Suramar’s outskirts.

His breath catches between his teeth as he turns to face the road. Just what on Elune’s sake did he agree on?  

* * *

The whole atmosphere surrounding the landscapes of Lunastre Estate is enough to point out and throw off anyone who, deep down, never had a real place among the aristocracy. With polished marble stairs, strong and tall steel fences, and pristine gardens adorning the scenery in many shades of cerulean and green, Duchess Ly’leth’s palace seems as impressive and immaculate as the rest of the Great Houses’ territory. If not—and surprisingly so—just as _powerful_ , and that’s telling a lot from the youngest Great House taking its place among Suramar’s Court.

It doesn’t seem _odd_ , though—after all, appearances are everything for the Highborne nobility, and even Duchess Ly’leth has to prove every now and then how worthy she is of the place she’s taking.

As easygoing as he knows his best friend to be, Lothrius nods in unexpected approval as the sight of the huge entrance gate comes to view, nearly gaping under his helmet while the two of them diligently escort the Astravar’s cart from both sides. “From what I know, must admit I was expecting a more, um, _modest_ scenery from the Lunastres,” He mumbles only for Illidan to hear, “Could have fooled me,”

Illidan briefly shrugs his shoulders in admission, his attention turning to a silver carriage before theirs, holding back a menacing growl as a bunch of soldiers dressed in crimson and black robes approach to one of the doors; a familiar man leading the way particularly standing out from the group, wearing an elegant ceremonial garment instead—throwing Illidan off at the completely unexpected view.

Is the main point of this evening about sorting out the usual—at least, for the Highborne—arranged marriage? Why hasn’t he been told?

 _More importantly,_ who _are the ones set up for such a thing?_

From his periphery, he notices Lothrius turning his head, ears subtly tilting upwards, prompting him to silently do the same. As the Astravar’s opulent cart waits in line, both Sorcerers sharpen their ears and attempt to eavesdrop the _dorei_ climbing down the transport as one of the Rooksguard men open the door for them to do so.

“Milady, Milord, is everything alright?” Jarod Shadowsong, clad in a long dull-silver robe tied up from neck to toe—which, from Illidan’s point of view, apparently covers the same armor his militia is wearing underneath it—outstretches a hand for the second target of the evening, diligently helping Mylenne out of the Stareye’s cart. “Should I be worried?” Illidan reads his lips while Lord Desdel briefly sneers at his comment.

Mylenne is wearing a pretty different dress than the ones Illidan is used to see on her, yet in sky blue and cerulean shades as her usual wardrobe, with the exact amount of opulence the event demands on their attendants. Except for the footwear, that is, showing a pair of light sandals without heels more fit to run than to enhance her figure—which, if someone asked for Illidan’s opinion, seems to be _precisely_ what she attempts to achieve with that choice of clothing, given the two long gaps of her dress across her thighs and the lack of sleeves.

It doesn’t stop taking his breath away and making his mouth dry—or perhaps just the opposite—taking some advantage from the view and ogling her from head to toe for a brief, selfish moment.

Not that Lord Stareye notices the fair share of eyes glancing at his gorgeous daughter, for the matter, merely making sure Mylenne’s delicate silver tiara is properly resting on the crown of her braided head, then returning his attention to Jarod. “Yes. Half my guards were missing on our way here. I just sent Piet to investigate their whereabouts,” Lord Desdel mutters angrily while seeming to scan their surroundings with eyes of a predator, “I have strong suspicions either me or my daughter are being targeted right now,”

Mylenne’s father _reeks_ of sheer wrath even from Illidan’s position, but Shadowsong appears to be a decent actor, feigning surprise as his silver eyes go wide, “What? That’s a very serious assumption, Lord Commander,” The only woman in the group of warriors also stares intently at her father, all waiting for a proper explanation, “Targeted by whom, if I may ask?”

Lord Desdel doesn’t seem to bother with replying, the portion of his face Illidan can see from atop his saber briefly gleaming as he shows his white sharp fangs, grinning wickedly. _That’s the face of a man who’s completely aware what are they’re getting him into. He_ absolutely knows _we’re after his tail…_

Mylenne rests a hand over Lord Stareye’s forearm, stepping closer to him with pleading eyes, “Maybe we should leave, _An’da_. We may not be safe here,” She leans her head to get on his line of sight, seeming to try her best to formulate the words she needs to make her father comply, her shoulders stiffening, “The Duchess will understand, I’m sure of that,”

“Agreed,” Shadowsong follows quite quicker than apparently intended, nodding earnestly as he takes Mylenne’s free hand in both of his, prompting the Stareyes’ attention, “If either of you is in danger, then perhaps it’s wiser to postpone the event for another—“

“Nonsense. We’re not waiting any further,” Lord Desdel looks as resolute as he sounds, waving a curt hand in dismissal and brushing his daughter away as subtly as he can, waiting for their carriage and servants to move before continuing his talk. “My blade’s been _thirsty_ for some traitor blood for quite a while. So let them come, and put up a good show for the Duchess…”

Lothrius nearly jumps when the Astravar’s cart begins to move forward once again, the previous conversation lost on his and Illidan’s ears while they dismount the nightsabers, more guards and servants alike approaching to help the nobles off. While Illidan feigns standing on attention, he keeps his eyes glued to Shadowsong and the Stareyes, the former looking reluctant to move and still attempting to make Lord Desdel see some reason.

As Illidan desperately tries to come up with an idea to keep watch over the Stareyes, the opportunity arrives before the trio reaches the entrance gates, nearly making him drop his façade with the abruptness of it all. The youngest of the Astravars, Lady Ailen, after getting off her cart, strides hurriedly to the stairs, leaving her family and a slightly lost Lothrius behind. “Lady Mylenne! Over here!” Ailen waves her over, holding up the many layers of her silk green dress in her walk, Illidan catching up with her in no time, “Please, wait for me!” 

A forced smile shows on Mylenne’s lips as she turns around to the voice, feline-painted silver eyes feigning joy as she excuses herself with her father and Shadowsong and obliges with Lady Ailen, waving back in a sort of shy manner while waiting for her at the stairs. That is, however, until her gaze lies on him, her pleased face dropping off in the blink of an eye—merely needing to catch Illidan’s eyes behind his helmet to recognize him. 

“ _Elune-adore_ , Milady. It is good to see you around,” Mylenne recovers pretty fast as Lady Astravar reaches the stairs, taking her gloved hand to greet her properly. “You have my thanks for coming over,”

Lady Ailen cackles, dismissing her formalities with a flick of her wrist, “My friend, I would be crazy to miss it! I know mother isn’t as eager as I am, but actually, this is my first time attending a ceremony such as this one,” The young Astravar seems more than excited, giving Mylenne a quite friendly hug, violet eyebrows quirking up with the surprising gesture as she pats Ailen’s back somewhat clumsily. “So, tell me. Are you nervous? Can I help you with something?” Ailen continues after letting Mylenne go.

“I, um… yes. Maybe you can,” Illidan’s ears unconsciously tilt upwards in question, earning a brief yet not less nasty glare from Mylenne’s part, apparently going unnoticed by Lady Ailen as the rest of her family comes around. “Perhaps we can talk about it _in private?”_  Mylenne’s tone doesn’t leave up a no for an answer, prompting Ailen to follow her after bowing to Duchess Astravar and her court as they gather at the entrance.

Lothrius and Illidan, as Lady Ailen’s personal guards, instantly split up from the rest of the Sorcerers watching over the Astravars, silently and diligently following the pair inside the huge palace, watchful to give them their personal space; or at least, from Illidan’s part, doing so to avoid any more subtle yet not less _deathly_ glares from Mylenne. The young Astravar doesn’t seem to notice how tense her friend seems to be, delivering the latest gossips while turning to the first floor and away from the rest of the attendants—apparently heading for one room in particular, if Mylenne guiding the way means anything to go by.

The women stop at what looks like a private dressing room, three pretty familiar maids showing themselves as the door opens, earnestly bowing before the ladies. “Mistress, you’re already here. Lord Stareye sent us to tend for the last-minute, um, preparations,” The tallest of the maids hesitates after noticing Mylenne’s company, stepping aside to allow Lady Ailen to enter regardless. “Is it time already? Shall we begin, then?”

However, as Illidan and Lothrius on toe also step behind to follow Lady Astravar inside, Mylenne stands in their way, a very upset look crossing her eyes. “Guards are _not allowed._ ” She says, as curtly as ever, before slamming the door close, nearly hitting Illidan in the face.

Silence washes over the Sorcerers for a full minute, staring blankly at the closed door before sharing a dumbfounded look. Illidan is the first to come out from the reverie, anger beginning to boil up at Mylenne’s rudeness. “Well, now _I_ am mad…” Lothrius doesn’t bother with replying, throwing his arms in frustration and walking to stand on the side of the door as expected of him, muttering some nonsense to himself.

A moment later, not giving too many thoughts about it, Illidan walks away from the door and to a shadowy corner of the hallway. “Just cover me, I’m going in,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you probably can notice, this isn't my usual cliffhanger. It's just that I really had to cut this chapter into - **hopefully** , because I still have no idea how it's going to end up - 3 parts due to the insane amount of things happening in here D: 
> 
> I'd like to thank those readers who reached out to me via PMs, Tumblr and Discord, waiting so patiently for the next update. And _wow_ , I really can't believe how much some of you held up and waited for this. I'm humbled beyond words, honestly, and can't thank you enough for being so kind and encouraging to me ♥
> 
> In the meantime and while working on Pt. II and III - which are coming shortly, **and I really mean this** \- feel free to reach me out and say hi as I also work on my art on [Tumblr](https://hoxadrine-art.tumblr.com) and try to pay some bills before going bankrupt.


	27. Echoing Betrayal (Lunastre Estate Pt. II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t have to be there, Lord Stareye can handle this by himself. He has his own guards as you both said, but you…” A soft sigh escapes Illidan’s lips, ears tilting downwards involuntarily, “I _know_ you, and I can’t bear to see you in the middle of it all only to defend that _sart_ of your father.” His hand travels from her arm to her cheek, cupping it tenderly, “I just can’t…”
> 
> As if surrendering to his touch, Mylenne’s eyes flutter close and sighs as well, leaning into his hand. “Even if I want to, I just _can’t_ leave. It’s too late for that now…” She says with the thinnest voice, a sense of regret plastered all over her face as she takes his hand with both of hers afterwards. “Silgryn hasn’t told you everything, isn’t he?”

** Darnassian: **

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

**Quel / Quel’dorei:**  Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.

**Sar’thera:**  A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating. Slang:  **Sart(e).**

**Shan'do:**  Honored Teacher.

**Elune-adore:**   “Elune be with you”, works as a greeting and a farewell.

**Shan’re:** Honorable One/Friend. Used informally, most commonly among the aristocracy, to acknowledge an esteemed noble or someone below their caste.

**An'da** : Father.

**Elun'dorini talah:** “Let Elune’s will be everlasting”.

* * *

** Stormrage **

Not waiting for his friend’s acknowledgment, Illidan inwardly begins casting Oculeth’s Invisibility spell on himself, a slight purplish-blue glow washing over his head and shoulders before disappearing from view among the shadows. For the matter, it only makes Lothrius go into a sudden panic, over-gesticulating frantically and muttering through clenched teeth. “If you don’t get us killed first, I swear for _everything you hold dear_ I’m going to kill you myself,” However, when the muffled chattering from the floor below is the only reply he gets, he stifles a very annoying groan, “… And then dig you out of your grave to kill you again!”

Merely snorting low in amusement, Illidan sticks close to the door as Lothrius gives up, tapping it thrice with a knuckle. When Lady Ailen shows herself, he’s just as quick to make up an excuse—something about Duchess Astravar requesting his partner’s presence—as it is for Illidan to sneak in effortlessly, crouching on a far corner of the dressing room and next to a wardrobe, careful not to make any noise.

Mylenne, however, stays still and silent as she waits for Lady Astravar to get them alone once again, yet she keeps looking particularly tense as her friend does so, lavender ears quirked up in alert and bare shoulders stiffen. Thankfully and before leaving her to become more suspicious, one of the maids guides her to a chair facing a full-body mirror; all women turning her backs on Illidan as they walk to the opposite side of the room, an odd sense of awkwardness hanging in the air as everyone seems reluctant to break the silence.

After sending a glare at the three maids, one by one, Mylenne’s the one to do so. “Well, now that you have me alone, you can start with spilling the truth. _Which_ Stareye sent you?” Her reprimand makes the trio fidget in obvious nervousness, prompting her to add, “Oh, don’t mind Lady Astravar here. I’d like her to know what this is really all about,”

The portion of Lady Ailen’s face Illidan can see from his hiding spot looks dumbfounded, tilting her head in confusion and opening her mouth to say something. However, one of the maids—presumably the one in charge—replies first, “You are right, it is fair of you to ask for honesty after having us under your wing all these past centuries. It… was Lord Silgryn, as you suspected,” She lifts her hands in the universal sign of surrender, “But please, Milady, do not take upon Bara and Loratha, I am the one responsible for us to be here. Besides, we are merely to keep an eye on you and nothing further! Lord Silgryn is only worried about you and—”

“Keep an eye on her? What’s the meaning of this? Are you servants or _informants_?” Lady Astravar snaps out of her confused state, spilling the last word half-disgustedly, arms crossing as she scans suspiciously at every woman in the room, her tone clearly demanding a proper answer. “I’m hoping you can explain yourself, Lady Mylenne…”

Mylenne raises a hand to the noble Lady in attempts to calm her down, “That’s all I want to do and why I brought you here. But please, take a seat with me first,” Pointing out to the closest chair, she waits for Ailen to oblige before continuing, sitting across from her. “To be honest, I intended to go to Lady Starweave instead, but I fear you’re the only one that can be trusted with this right now. Thing is, I’m in need of your help,”

From his hidden spot, Illidan unconsciously tenses. It’s easy to assume Mylenne would have opted on avoiding Syrana so not to resort to him and Lothrius as well, but what does Lady Astravar have to offer instead?

_And most important, what could she possibly be needing help for?_

“And let me guess: It has nothing to do with the main event of the evening and why we’re all here for, is it?” Lady Astravar arches a brow, an air of mistrust showing all over her heavily painted face.

Mylenne just sighs softly, appearing to hesitate at first, lilac lips pursing briefly. “Let me be plain and simple, then: My uncle, Silgryn Stareye, is planning to assassinate my father tonight, and I need your help to _not_ make it happen,” She then deadpans, eyes fixed on her noble companion, gaze unwavering.

_Well, we’re screwed. Why am I beginning to think Lothrius was right with that bad hunch all along? First was Silgryn, then Lord Desdel, and now Mylenne? Is every Stareye playing their own game tonight?_

Lady Ailen’s shocked gasp can nearly be heard from outside the room, “ _What?_ I… why would he do that!?” Bringing a hand to her cheek in a way to recompose herself, her wide-eyed gaze lands dangerously close to the corner where Illidan lies hidden, yet only briefly before turning to Mylenne and the maids once again. “Doesn’t matter, it’s a reckless plan anyway; Lord Stareye couldn’t be safer elsewhere. Nearly all the Rooksguard was brought here by him and General Ravencrest, and Conjurer Vilessa herself is in charge of the Palace security!”

Mylenne nods wholeheartedly, taking Lady Astravar’s gloved hand in hers, “I know that, and that’s why I’ve been looking for someone like you to side on with me,” She says in a calming tone, waiting a moment for Ailen to recover, “In truth, this isn’t coming just as suddenly as you may think. Father’s been looking for a fair excuse to banish my uncle from Suramar once and for all, ever since his last return. Silgryn’s recklessness will give him plenty of reasons and even a consistent proof to bring to the Duchess and pledge for that. Not to mention _people may die_ tonight because of it,”

One of the maids procures a glass of water for the noble Lady, keeping a polite distance after she takes it and vaguely nods in thanks. “Dear Elune. I mean, the centuries-old rivalries of the men of House Stareye are of public knowledge. It’s a common topic among the nobles of the Court, even. But I had no idea it went as far as _this_ ,” After taking two gulps and a deep breath, she seems to be recomposing from her previous shock, “I wonder, does your father knows he’s in danger right now?”

“Yes. Actually, half of his men were chased down on our way here, but he doesn’t want to give in to my uncle. Don’t forget how of a prideful lot we Stareyes are…” Mylenne chuckles darkly, crossing her legs as she faces her friend properly, “I think father has hopes for Silgryn to show up in a dramatic fashion, as I’m aware he can, but I already did my best to make sure he won’t,” A long sigh follows, appearing to summon some strength to continue, “I also happen to know _who_ Silgryn sent here,”

Her last comment prompts both Ailen and Illidan’s complete attention—if she didn’t have it before, that is. _What’s she planning on?_ “Well, that’s good! Have they arrived already? Or, um, are you friends with them?” Lady Astravar points out to the three silent maids, yet a slight frown shows on her face as it’s Mylenne who nods in admission, “Okay, um, alright. Then, perhaps you can talk them down or something, or… Wait!” She stands up abruptly, clapping her hands and startling the maids, “I know! You can lead me to the assassin! I’ll have my guards lock them up somewhere until Lord Desdel’s free from harm! What do you say?”

Mylenne’s shoulders slump down in apparent defeat, drawing another long breath. “That will be complicated, Lady Ailen, for they are _your guards_ …” She finally deadpans.

Her disclosure makes Illidan draw an inward breath, jaw nearly dropping. _What in Elune’s fucking sake? She thinks Silgryn sent_ us?

“ _What!?_ ” Lady Astravar stops on her tracks, shocked to the core once again, bringing both hands to her head. “Oh… oh, Goddess! And I just let one of them go! Maybe he’s already… I should—“

Realizing he can’t stay hidden for much longer, Illidan rushes to get in the way of Lady Astravar and the door as quick as the blink of an eye. His Spellcaster robes flutter with the motion, air rippling around him as his invisibility spell drops, standing on his full height before the woman.

“There is no need of that, Milady.” He says plainly, staring Ailen down in a way to prove how serious—and, if accidentally, how distrustful of her—he is.

The five women take a step back at his sudden appearance, one of the maids barely muffling a yelp and another even reaching for an empty bottle, prompting Illidan to take his helmet off as a way of showing he actually means no harm. Not like it’s relevant, for the matter, after noticing Mylenne’s wide-eyed stare on him, bright silver then blazing with sheer fury.

“What the… y-you’ve been here this whole time!?” Her fangs briefly glint with the dim candlelight in the room, careless of her clothes and expensive jewelry as she launches herself at him, as mad as Illidan’s ever seen her. “I had the feeling you were, but didn’t want to believe it. And still you… you _dare_!” Mylenne barks, slapping his cheek sharply, making him flinch away in near shock—if from her odd revelation or her _audacity_ , he’s not really sure.

Yet before grasping the chance to explain himself, the maid who had previously spoken up interjects once again. “I beg your pardon, Mistress, but I believe this is a misunderstanding,” She scoots to Mylenne’s point of view, trying to get her attention, “Before coming to this room, I was ordered to unlock a personnel-only door which leads to the gardens. I understood that was meant for the assassin to sneak in,” Mylenne’s brows quirk up in question, not really getting it, “What I am trying to say is, it is unlikely for Lady Astravar’s guards to be the assassins. Why would they come through the main entrance otherwise?”

“At least listen to her. Of course we’re not here for that,” Illidan insists, doing his best not to put up an unbelievable face, holding his stinging cheek and careful to keep a safe distance from the raging woman. “We’re trying to sneak _you_ away from here, you see?”

Mylenne’s features soften drastically at his remark, her previous hard glare switching to a suddenly confused look. However, the air of hostility isn’t fully turned off as Lady Astravar grabs her friend by the elbow in a protective manner. “Who are you? And what have you done to my guards, Sorcerer?” The noble Lady asks in her usual demanding tone, frowning in skepticism. 

Illidan sighs heavily, idly wondering how long they’ll keep going with the tiring interrogation. “No need to worry, Milady. We merely switched assignments, your former guards are safe and sound at the Stronghold,” He can’t help with slightly rolling his eyes with the irrelevancy of the topic, as much with adding, “Just… _slightly upset_ for not coming over, but that is all,” A smug smirk shows on his face, inwardly thanking the Goddess for having Syrana and her invaluable help.

“Oh, cut the crap, Illidan.” Mylenne brushes off his nonchalance, returning to that oddly awful demeanor she’s been having ever since she argued with her uncle. “And whatever you’ve been scheming, just drop it too,” Crossing her arms, she looks away as if offended, “I’m not going anywhere and whatever may be our stand with father, I still won’t leave him alone right now…”

He barely swallows a groan, dangerously reaching the end of his tolerance. “Mylie, listen to me. I’m only doing this for _your safety_ ,” Illidan partially lies—not like he needs to tell otherwise—stomping into her personal space and grabbing her arm almost harshly, not moving a mere inch when Mylenne tries pushing him away by the chest, flustered, “This place will be in total chaos in any minute from now, and I really can’t assure there won’t be any casualties when that happens,”

Their eyes lock for a long moment, fierce anger flashing across Mylenne’s gaze—yet only briefly, unable to handle their staring match for much longer. He lets down his guard a bit as well, “You don’t have to be there, Lord Stareye can handle this by himself. He has his own guards as you both said, but you…” A soft sigh escapes Illidan’s lips, ears tilting downwards involuntarily, “I _know_ you, and I can’t bear to see you in the middle of it all only to defend that _sart_ of your father.” His hand travels from her arm to her cheek, cupping it tenderly, “I just can’t…”

As if surrendering to his touch, Mylenne’s eyes flutter close and sighs as well, leaning into his hand. “Even if I want to, I just _can’t_ leave. It’s too late for that now…” She says with the thinnest voice, a sense of regret plastered all over her face as she takes his hand with both of hers afterwards. “Silgryn hasn’t told you everything, isn’t he?”

Illidan’s brows knit together in a worried frown, lending her a hand as Mylenne tiredly tries removing the shimmering silver tiara adorning the crown of her head, the rest of the room’s occupants finally giving them some space. “When the letters with the invitations arrived, after the fight we had at the bar, I left right away, as you surely can remember,” She begins, reluctant to meet Illidan’s eyes. “Thing is, I found my owl, Normosh’el, outside the bar, with another invitation. It was one for _Silgryn_ …”

Half-consciously and more because how accustomed he is to do her hair over the years, Illidan remakes a violet braid that got in the way while taking away her tiara, humming idly. “I don’t get it. What’s got to do with all this?” He wonders, fingers working fast and on its own accord and then latching the small braid behind her lavender ear with a pin, making it twitch as his thumb accidentally brushes her lobe.

“It’s no secret that father’s been working for very long to get Silgryn banished, no matter the cost. It turns out he already has solid proof to do so,” Mylenne explains half-vaguely, gesticulating in a way to get to the point she’s attempting to, “Anyways, father invited him over not with intentions of a truce, as written in his letter, but with the idea of bringing him to the Duchess and expose him publicly—”

“Or rightfully claim Lord Silgryn’s head if he happens to not accept such terms, I’m guessing,” Lady Astravar intervenes, biting her lower lip and looking deep in thought.

“… Which even you can admit was exactly what would have happened if Silgryn were around right now,” Mylenne remarks with a sharp flick of her wrist. “I mean, I know he’s smart enough to not believe such a lie as a truce between them, but he’d have come anyway only to prove father he has the guts to show his face,”

“Either way, that was a bold move from Lord Desdel. Even if Lord Silgryn doesn’t come, he can place an arrest warrant on him for not doing so…” Lady Ailen speaks _almost_ as if she admires the Stareye patriarch, the silver of her eyes glinting, looking like running through many outcomes in her head, “I genuinely wonder how Lord Silgryn will get away with this one. As clever as he’s known to be, I haven’t seen him getting out of worse situations than this just yet,”

Beside him, Mylenne snorts without an inch of amusement. “My uncle’s not how you remember him to be anymore, Ailen. As much as I can admit it was father who cast him out and started this… _war_ among my House in the first place, Silgryn has retaliated as recklessly as I’ve ever seen him,”

Having a hunch that Mylenne’s speaking from her thoughts on that evening at Aedriel’s hidden vault in Stareye Manor, Illidan can’t help with tsking in disagreement, “Sometimes a time comes when you must fight fire with fire, Mylie…” He just says, knowing it’s not safe to go into further details, hoping for her to understand what he really means.

Sure thing, Silgryn Stareye may not be the sharpest or cleverest of _dorei_ in Illidan’s eyes, but if there’s one thing he can give him, is that he really works for what he aspires to achieve. And that may usually be frowned down from the Highborne nobility, but at least he _tries_ turning the odds in his favor and is not afraid of the consequences as his pairs commonly might be; something that, whatever the differences they may share, makes him worthy of Illidan’s respect, which isn’t particularly easy to earn.

“And drag us all into the fray in the process?” Turning her guard down a fair amount, Mylenne turns to a table and procures a glass of water, bitterness adorning her voice, “Don’t get me going with how little he seems to care for the lot of us, or not enough to at least ask for our opinions in the first place.”

Of course, Illidan wouldn’t really trust Silgryn with his life or the ones he holds dear, but just enough to accept his terms and work together towards a common goal such as the one he’s currently neck-deep into.

_Bah, you can’t be_ that _shameless_ _to dare think you’re not doing this for your own selfish reasons, Stormrage. You want to impress her, it’s not that big of a deal. Most men would do much worse than you for just a petty minute in the company of a stunning noblewoman such as Mylenne…_

Speaking—or _thinking_ —of which, another offended snort reaches Illidan’s ears, cutting off his self-ponderings. “Aaaand given you seem to care just as little as well, I’ll just go straight to the point,” Mylenne gives him the fakest of smiles before frowning hard, seeming upset at his lack of proper attention, “There’s something you should know, Lid. Remember when we got Arluin out of the dungeons? Turns out, one of Jarod’s men saw us and went to General Ravencrest,”

The sudden news makes Illidan hum in concern, although it’s Lady Astravar who, once again, happens to be the most surprised of them all. “Wait. Dungeons, you say? You mean you sneaked into Black Rook Hold, of _all places_?”

“A long story, Milady,” He cuts her off with a raising hand, not bothering to look at her in the eye, “But that means he saw me as well,” His brows knit together hard, inevitably starting to run through the worst outcomes of that—almost forgotten—event in his head.

Does that mean he’s in trouble? But how Syrana, his most trustworthy informant and unofficial Queen of Gossips, hasn’t heard of it but Mylenne did? 

As if reading his thoughts, Mylenne crosses her arms, sending him a suspicious look. “It almost seems as if you don’t know me already,” Her lips purse into a sneer, “That’s the first thing I asked, by the way, but nobody recognized you. We Stareyes are easier to be spotted,”

Vaguely pointing at her long violet mane, she begins pacing around, mood changing drastically as she looks like summoning some strength to continue explaining, “Thing is, Jarod and I found another way to stop father from banishing Silgryn _and_ get Jarod punished for insubordination and perpetuating an ongoing investigation,”

She draws a heavy sigh, eyes fluttering close, anger seeming to be long gone. “And so, we’ve already made a deal with him…”

Illidan’s breath catches before he’s able to find any words to say in reply, an odd mix of emotions coursing through him—frustration, dread, sheer concern boiling up altogether. Does that mean what he suspects it does? Whatever deal they made, nothing that Lord Desdel Stareye could have ever demanded of her in exchange would be good in any way, that’s for certain. And no matter how overdramatic he may put it, Illidan can’t help but take the news as grimly as it sounds.

That, from now on, Lord Desdel appears to be having his daughter on a leash—cornered to a wall, forced to do as he commands.

“Mylie, you… you just can’t… have you gone out of your mind!?”

The creak of the door as it suddenly opens startles everyone inside the room, prompting Illidan to—in an act of instinct—put his helmet back on in a rush, inwardly cursing himself for being as careless as he’s been in a place filled with enemies lurking in every corner. For everyone’s relief, it’s just Lothrius, yet the distressed look in his eyes says the exact opposite.

“Um, guys? The Nightsaber himself is coming up the stairs…” Appearing just about to go into a panic, Lothrius’ near crazed gaze lies on Illidan, frantically gesturing to the exit with his head. “You know I can’t put a spell on him, right? _We have to go!_ ” He mutters through clenched teeth, holding the door for him.

Gathering the best of his composure, Illidan nods in acknowledgment, hesitating to spare a glance at the women and risk staying and further ruining any way out for him. As much as he and Mylenne have just started to disclose with each other, his instincts tell him to leave it for a more appropriate moment—if they will _ever_ have another one, that is.

With a clouded mind and after an intake of breath, he heads for the door, only for Mylenne to stop him all of a sudden. “Look, Illidan, I need you on my side more than ever. Please…” Their eyes lock once again as she clings to his purple sleeve, and his heart feels like shattering into pieces at the desperate sight of her, “If you weren’t the ones Silgryn sent, then I take you know who the assassin is,”

He swallows hard, the dark corners of his mind beginning to question why he’d ever got up from his bed that evening in the first place. “Yes, but it’s useless. I have no idea where Ha—“ Catching a brief glance at Lady Astravar, Illidan bites his tongue, getting a sudden bad hunch, “Where _he_ is.” Nonetheless, Mylenne gets it right away, barely holding a shocked gasp as it escapes her mouth, covering it with a trembling hand. “You know I’d do everything in my reach if you just ask me to, but I haven’t been told of the other’s intentions, I don’t—”

The sound of several muffled footsteps, appearing to come from the stairs end, prompt her to recover her composure as fast as it went off—probably also realizing how dangerous it is to have him so close and around as well.

“O-okay, then. Here’s what we’ll do,” Letting him go, they both walk to the door yet not further enough to stand outside; Mylenne’s voice barely a whisper. “I’ll hold off father here and try talking him out of keeping our stay again, but you two have to find him. And _stop him_ , no matter what.” Her bright silver eyes glint with sheer determination, intent on showing Illidan how serious she appears to be. “You _must_ trust me on this, alright?”

_I always do. It’s just_ anyone else _I don’t trust._ But the words get caught on Illidan’s tongue as a large shadow comes nearby, unconsciously sending a cold shiver down his spine with the sound of a ruffling, long crimson cloak; leather boots tapping on the porcelain floor ever so elegant yet menacingly at the same time.

In a moment’s notice, he stands in attention at the other side of the door from Lothrius, gaze strongly fixed on the balcony, not even blinking nor wanting to seem bold enough to stare at the imposing figure of Lord Desdel Stareye—remarkably so, being one of the few males in Suramar just as tall as Illidan is.

Yet he’s the one who does.

“Enjoying the evening, fledglings?” Lord Stareye’s deep, baritone voice booms across the hallway just as ominously as his very presence, a crooked smile on his scarred face, silver eyes sharp as a predator as he stares Lothrius down. “I certainly hope so. Tonight is a celebration, after all.”

_And we’ll absolutely do just that after we hang your head on a spike, you big piece of shit_ , the twisted voice within Illidan snarls, growling as the caged beast it really is, rejoicing in advance for what’s about to come upon him that very evening.

Lothrius hesitates, however, yet after a tense silence washes over them, he seems to opt for a polite greeting. “Milord…”

“—and hopefully, it may be the last for the likes of you.” Lord Desdel looms over him, nearly into Lothrius’ personal space, his smile widening into a wicked grin. “Sadly, I cannot say the same for the rest of my fellow nobles, but once my Rooksguard takes charge of the affairs of House Lunastre and their vassals as we rightfully deserve, perhaps they will also see no need of _spiteful_ sorcery and follow our example.”

Illidan clamps his teeth down the inside of his cheek so to keep himself in check, although it’s a sense of pride what does the job as, subtly glancing sideways, he notices Lothrius’ portion of his face behind his helmet as hard as a rock, not giving in to Lord Stareye’s intimidations in the slightest. His friend doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a comeback either, staring at the balcony with a straight chin, still as a statue.

With a low, dark chuckle, Lord Desdel leaves him be, then casts a glance at Illidan at the side, his pleased face finally relaxing and returning to its natural scowling features. His gaze lingers on Illidan for a considerable—and very uncomfortable—amount of time, but if he’d just recognized him from previous encounters, Illidan can’t really tell, more than determined to not give in and stare back as the noble Lord dares him so.

“Now, if you excuse me, my adoring daughter awaits my presence,” The newly appointed Lord Commander merely says before sauntering into the room, a tint of sarcasm in his voice. “Mylenne, my dear, you haven’t changed yet…?” It’s the last Illidan and Lothrius hear before the door snaps shut.

So that’s what appears to be Lord Desdel’s incentive for the evening. However, it still looks hard to point out what does that has to do with his daughter or the—quite _incompetent_ for Illidan’s liking—daughter’s childhood friend that happens to have him as a _Shan’do_. It’s not clear enough, but the only thing Mylenne and Jarod Shadowsong are sharing that evening beside the obvious family drama are the preparations for a marriage arrangement to be held.

A sudden and very crazy thought crosses Illidan’s mind as of then, nearly setting him off with the oddity of it all: It could be that… Lord Desdel’s leaving his widowhood behind and getting married? But, then again, why hasn’t he heard _anything at all_?

They should search for Syrana, and _fast_.

As if having a life of its own, Illidan’s feet move towards the hallway and to the stairs, head racing with questions upon questions that need to be answered before he loses his mind for good. No matter her slight inclination to do so, Mylenne still doesn’t seem willing to give him any, and her warrior friend is definitely _not_ an option to lean on—even if it’s just his pride speaking, Jarod is technically not one to be trusted.

He doesn’t get to walk too far before the damned door opens once again, Lady Astravar heading out as composed as Illidan has seen her in the entire evening, making the universal signal to get on the move with a vague gesture of her adorned wrist. With some frustration—due to nearly have forgotten his actual job—Illidan obliges and turns on his heels, only for the noble Lady to snort in slight amusement.

“Not _you_ ,” She says as if it’s obvious, a small smirk showing on her face before sauntering past him with Lothrius in toe, who merely shrugs, apparently being more clueless than him.

However, Illidan doesn’t have the chance to wonder what’s going on as Mylenne strolls to the hallway as well, blabbering what seems to be a sort of vague excuse before closing the door afterwards. His heart skips a beat, annoyance long forgotten and something close to hope blossoming within him, a soft sigh and softer smile creeping up his face. Has she reconsidered his offer of leaving the palace?

It gets surprisingly better than just that when Mylenne rushes to him, small lavender hands pulling his head down by the helmet, her face tilting to the side as, of all things she could have done, she does the most unexpected one:

She kisses him with all her might.

Time stops all of a sudden, and so does his need to breathe or even blink. Actually, he can’t find any way to reciprocate somehow; not when all his brain does is going into short-circuiting, utterly lost for any sense of reason as her lips press hard against his. All Illidan can do is stay so very still, staring at her through crinkled slits and arms limping on his sides, savoring what he so deeply wishes to be like _home_ and _warmth_ —the same heavenly feeling he’d been craving for ever since he first kissed her, some months back.

But instead, it gets to be like the most _bittersweet_ feeling in the world.  

It lasts only a breath, however, and when the gesture should have been all Illidan has ever wanted, it still feels completely _wrong_ , leaving him just as stunned as lost for any words whatsoever. As his sights return and Mylenne leans away from him, bright silver eyes then brimming with tears, his heart seems to shatter into pieces, a sense of hopelessness overtaking his senses.

He should be rejoicing in that very moment; maybe throw the biggest fucking party, Silgryn Stareye’s style, and yell to even the darkest corners of Suramar City to hear of his most wild dream becoming true at last. That Lady Mylenne of House Stareye, of all women in the Empire, finally appears to have reciprocated his feelings—and to him, _him,_ nothing more than a petty nameless lowborn from the humble town of Lorlathil, of all men in the Empire.

He should be kissing her back with all his might as well, then take her hand and run far, far away together as he’d planned countless times in his sleep. Just the two of them, turned fugitives and living the good life at its fullest, side by side as it should be.

And yet, for some wild reason, he hasn’t felt so _torn up_ in all his life as of then.

“What… was that for?” Illidan has no idea how he’d found his voice again, instantly regretting what he just said as Mylenne’s face slightly cringes as if in pain.

She takes a deep breath and a hard swallow. “Because I know you too,” She replies in the same weak tone, walking backwards, mindful of quickly wiping some tears running down her face before her makeup gets ruined. “And you won’t, but… I can only hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me…”

He hasn’t the slightest idea what’s with the Stareyes and their more than gloomy last words that evening, but at that very moment, right when Mylenne returns to her father and silence falls over his shoulders like a heavy rock, he’s certain he had just lost the will to know any further.

Turning on his heels, he meets Lothrius standing at the end of the stairs, face filled with sheer concern. “I get you now, you know,” Illidan’s lips purse tightly, hands clenching into fists, “I too have a very bad feeling about this…”

* * *

They can’t really blame her skepticism, not when she’d just found out they’re not the guards her family had hired for the evening, but as him and Lothrius follow Lady Astravar across the other side of the Palace without a single word between them for twenty minutes or so, her attitude starts to get on Illidan’s nerves as well as Lothrius’—judging by his constant fleeting looks at the back of her head, that is.

Eventually, his friend seems to have reached the end of his patience, or maybe it’s just curiosity getting the best of him. “Um, where exactly are we going, Milady?” Lothrius wonders as they walk past the gate leading to the gardens and, consequently, where all the nobles appear to be gathering around. “Are you not supposed to—“

Lady Ailen merely glances past her shoulder. “You think that, as _my guard_ , you have some right to question my every move?” The remark prompts Lothrius to shut his mouth, the three of them turning around the corner and to a less crowded lobby. “Come now, there’s no reason to head to the gardens just yet,”

“But…” Illidan interjects, figuring out his friend may have a point with blending among the nobles, only to almost bump into her as she stops abruptly, facing him properly.

Not at all intimidated by his height, the noblewoman leans into Illidan’s personal space, chin up and defiant. “I said I will help, Sorcerer, and before all, I am an Astravar. So whatever you may think of me, remember we are proudly known for keeping our words.” Lady Ailen sneers, frowning hard, golden eyes gleaming in purplish tones as her inner magic manifests, if only briefly. “Regardless, I agreed to help _Lady Stareye_ , not you. So learn your place if you intend to keep your job…”

_‘Learn your place’? Well, well, the Twilight Tide just had a_ surge _of petty arrogance. At least she’s bold, you should give her that._

However, the Lady’s audacity kind of hits one of Illidan’s soft spots, forcefully making him swallow his own pride and shut his damn mouth for the current moment, falling behind her slightly swagger walk across the lobby with a defeated Lothrius stepping over Illidan’s shadow.

Thankfully so, his crushed mood gets somewhat better as they come across some known faces from the Moon Guard. Nearly the whole Astravar’s Court seems to have gathered on that hall, including Conjurers Thalerian and Vilessa who look to be having a heated discussion next to a long window facing the gardens of the Palace. Near the next exit, there’s a bunch of other Spellcasters dutifully following someone who—at a simple view—looks like a very important envoy from Suramar’s Court, judging by the marble sigil of a crown engraving their purple cloak.

“Milady, you’ve finally made it!” A familiar voice recalls the trio’s attention, their broad smile and welcoming demeanor first catching Illidan’s eye as he turns to the source, prompting a relieved sigh out of him. “Ah, I’m afraid we had to start this lovely Nightwine without you, but let me fetch you a glass right away!” Lord Nyellus Starweave clicks his fingers and signals a waitress over, bowing gracefully to his Duchess’ daughter afterwards as his way to give a proper greeting.

“Oh, _Shan’re_ Nyellus, you’re too good for me…” Lady Ailen pats his arm gratefully, her polite smile widening even further as another friendly face comes by, providing her a full glass of wine. “And you’ve brought your little daughter with you! Shalasyr, what a sight for sore eyes, it’s been so long!”

Brushing away the courtly manners, Lady Astravar wraps Shalasyr in an eager hug, making the young Starweave more mortified than before, although recovering pretty quickly and hugging the woman back rather clumsily, mindful of the expensive jewelry adorning Ailen’s neck and ears. A third newcomer then appears to come in Shalasyr’s rescue, clearing her throat exaggeratedly behind the pair of women, prompting them apart and facing her.

“And no hug for me? Aw, you just broke my heart, Ailen…” Syrana makes a melodramatic show of looking devastated, brushing her forehead with the back of her gloved hand and pretending to be about to faint. Her father tsks in disapproval, but that doesn’t seem to stop his eldest daughter’s mocking act.

Lothrius snickers very quietly behind the nobles, yet he goes unnoticed by everyone but Illidan. “Where were you, dear?” Nyellus asks his daughter as she joins the group with more drinks.

“Distracting Lord Blackforest as you asked, _An’da_. What else?” A gleam of deviltry crosses Syrana’s golden eyes, appearing as pretty much entertained as usual among events like those, fixing a non-existent crease off the teal sleeve of her gown with nonchalance. “Oh, nothing too troublesome, Milady, he just can’t seem to stop fawning over Arcanist Valtrois over there and it’s giving the Spellcasters some headaches already,” She stabs a thumb past her shoulder and to the general direction of Elisande’s only envoy.

The Starweaves and Lady Astravar spare a moment to give the Arcanist a subtle once over. “Well, it’s not like she can pass unnoticed, with almost half the Moonguard breathing on her neck…” Ailen seems to think out loud, taking a small sip of her Nightwine. “I just wonder why the Grand Magistrix would send one of her Court over here, _and_ without her own guards,”

“From what I can tell, I believe it’s safe to say this gathering will beat Lord Moonblade’s last masquerade ball,” Syrana says in an obvious tone, resting her weight on her other hip, “You heard it from me, but _this_ is the event of the decade, my dear Ailen. Don’t tell Lord Moonblade, though, or we wouldn’t stop hearing his cries for months…” She covers her mouth for the last part, adding up a mocking roll of her eyes.

Illidan’s stoic façade almost falls apart with Syrana’s amusing chit-chat… until there’s another thing that unexpectedly does the job—a very sudden white noise assaulting his mind, nearly deafening him for a whole second. He’s forced to swallow a grunt of pain, eyes shutting close.

_That’s Arcanist Valtrois?_ A voice that’s not his, nor from the dark corners of his mind, whispers right to Illidan’s ear and into his head, clouding the rest of his thoughts. _Don’t get near her, Illidan. I’m told of her talents and you definitely don’t want her to use them on you…_

His senses get clouded, doing his best with not looking as startled and utterly alarmed as he admittedly is, yet tensing noticeably nonetheless, feeling Lothrius’ worried glance through the corner of his lidded eyes.

“… I think an engagement party always surpasses a _kal-tora_ , no matter how _fancy_ ,” Lady Astravar’s voice sounds oddly muffled, as if coming from miles away, even when she’s standing right next to him.

What’s most concerning is that Illidan _knows_ who that voice belongs to. How in Elune’s sake is that even possible? Is he going mad already?

“Conjurer Thalerian finally getting matched, that’s something I thought I wouldn’t get to see anytime soon,” Nyellus guffaws next to Shalasyr, everyone looking pretty oblivious of one of Lady Astravar’s guards nearly going into a fret mere inches from them, still raptured in their conversation. “However, I’m inclined to believe the reason why Elisande’s envoy is surrounded by Moonguards tonight is as a sign of good faith from him,” 

“Makes fair sense, if the Order’s turning under the Lunastre’s wing…” Lady Ailen agrees with a thoughtful nod.

The passing comment leaves Illidan to wonder. Is the Moon Guard also turning to House Lunastre? Having two diverse Orders such as his own and the Rooksguard under the same banner would indeed call for an interesting turn of events—and a more than fair reason why an envoy from Elisande’s Court would come to oversee such negotiation—but also for some trouble as well. 

But then, another stabbing feeling strikes Illidan’s head, leaving him unable to focus on the ongoing talk, this time pretty less painful than the first one, however. _Try not to panic, please. That makes it worse._ The source of the voice seems to turn to the back of his head instead of his ear as before, prompting Illidan to scratch it in an act of reflex—and to massage away the tense muscles of his neck.

_I promise I’ll explain later, but now listen to me very carefully: Silgryn’s been betrayed._

Unable to take it anymore, Illidan turns to search for the owner of the voice near frantically, fairly sure this time it’s not the twisted one of his conscience playing games with him as he’s already accustomed to.

_There were no Rooksguard at the road, only couriers dressed up as soldiers. Lieutenant Piet just lost me but he and Lord Desdel_ knew _we were coming._

For the matter, he’s nowhere to be seen, sheer concern pooling on Illidan’s gut, getting worse as he keeps speaking without pause. Perhaps he is, indeed, going somewhat insane.

If not, then how in Elune’s sake could he be hearing _Hargo’then_ in his head, of all people?

_Someone tipped us off, Illidan, and I’m inclined to believe it wasn’t anyone from Lord Desdel, but a_ Sorcerer _. Conjurer Vilessa has just called for a code purple moments ago, she must have been informed somehow…_

Lothrius elbows his side as subtly as he can, although it’s Syrana who saves the two of them as, after a fleeting glance Illidan’s way, recalls the group’s attention. “Speaking of it, have you, maybe, seen Lady Stareye?” She asks Lady Ailen, sliding a friendly arm across the woman’s shoulders, slowly yet surely leading her away from her family and the crowded lobby. “I’ve heard near the entire Rooksguard would be around tonight, but oddly enough, I’ve only met Captain Ravencrest and his daughter so far,”

Figuring out it’s useless to question how in the hell Hargo is able to speak into his mind, Illidan takes a blind chance and tries to reply to his voice, feeling silly as he hasn’t the slightest idea what’s he doing. _“Where are you, Hargo?”_ He thinks inwardly as if he’d be doing with a magic spell. _“It must have been Mylenne who tipped you off! Can you hear me at all?”_

Apparently, he doesn’t seem to, still invading Illidan’s mind without pause. _Look, neither I nor my men can do anything until Mylenne’s safely retrieved from her father and his warriors. Not if we’re being surrounded by all flanks as we seem to be. By now, our best chance is to hold off until the end of the ceremony, at best..._

“Yes, I left her with her father moments ago,” Lady Ailen acknowledges, and Illidan’s head feels like about to explode as he tries to catch up with many lines of conversation at once. “And now that you mention that, Syrana, is there a chance we perhaps can… speak in private for a moment?”

“Milady, I’m afraid Duchess Lunastre has just summoned everyone to the gardens,” Lord Nyellus interrupts, stopping the women from going elsewhere, “Want us to join you or would you rather wait for your mother?”

Lady Astravar hesitates for a split second, looking like considering her options. However, she seems to give up easily. “Go ahead, then. Actually, why don’t take my guards with you?” She adds with an annoyed tilt of her head, walking away already. “Mother has a fair share to spare anyways…”

Feeling utterly lost in his thoughts and worries, Illidan gives up as well and just allows his feet to guide the way among the crowd of nobles, following an eager Lothrius and a suspiciously silent Syrana to the gardens. 

* * *

Below a huge Moonwell and at the end of a walkway made of polished cobblestones, Duchess Ly’leth Lunastre finally shows herself, accompanied by her family and some other important members of her Court. Only a polite smile narrows her face, keeping silent and patiently waiting as her guests arrive and gather around; Syrana, Lothrius, and Illidan joining the Astravars at the right of the sidewalk, partially blending among the nobles.

After everyone has seemed to arrive and the gardens go silent, the Duchess finally begins her greeting. “My Lords and Ladies, I am most grateful to be graced with your presence tonight. Know that the gates of my Palace are always open for you,” Her voice is soothing and warm, yet it doesn’t do anything for Illidan as, worryingly so, doesn’t find the faces he’s looking for as he searches for them among the crowd, if subtly.

“This evening, I would like to indulge ourselves in a celebration; one for our union and commitment, yet not merely for pledging to the Great House of Lunastre, but for all of us as a family, happily gathered under the same roof by the will of the Goddess,”

A respectful round of applause follows, “If you please, I would like you to join me and witness as we announce a new arisen House under our wing, and formally declare the one who will represent the Lunastres as our honored main vassals,” Their host continues, a bunch of crimson and black dressed soldiers from the Rooksguard finally making their appearance, politely prompting the nobles to clear the walkway to the Duchess.

The gates to the gardens open wide afterwards, revealing a trio Illidan hadn’t thought he’d ever see together before—yet untying an invisible knot in his stomach nonetheless, sweet relief flooding through him.

“Now welcome Lord Captain Kur’talos of House Ravencrest and his daughter, Lady Illysanna, joined by her suitor, Lord Conjurer Thalerian. You may approach,” Duchess Ly’leth announces, goading them over with an elegant tilt of her head.

Captain Ravencrest saunters up front, chin held up proudly, his black cloak fluttering in the wind, Illysanna and Thalerian following him with arms linked, a ceremonial silver gown draped over their attires. “Who would have said, she certainly looks hot with some makeup…” Syrana can’t seem to stop herself from commenting, thankfully keeping her voice low, only for Illidan and Lothrius to hear.

The new Lord of the uprising House bows gracefully before his Duchess, then moves aside for his daughter and betrothed to step further, facing her as well. “Lady Ravencrest,” At the mention of her name, Illysanna brings a knee down before Lunastre, eyes meeting the floor. “With your union to the next-in-line Magister of the Moon Guard, do you pledge to represent and commit to the best interests of your Great House among Suramar’s Court and the city’s denizens, above all else?” 

“May Elune be my witness.” Lady Illysanna vows with sheer pride in her voice, not yet meeting her Duchess’ face until said so.

Next to Illidan, Lothrius leans closer to Syrana’s ear. “Does this mean you won’t get to bang Thalerian anymore?”

Their friend snorts in amusement, trying to playfully elbow Lothrius’ gut. “Eh, it’s just an engagement,” Syrana remarks, glancing past her shoulder, “Besides, maybe that girl would need some _private classes_ on how to be a noble Lady, and who would I be to dare decline such nice fresh meat?”

“Then rise, Milady, and carry on with my blessing and the Goddess’.” Lunastre outstretches a hand to the Lady, prompting her up with a smile on both their faces. “You now stand as a vassal of the Great House of Lunastre. _Elun'dorini talah._ ”

Turning to Illysanna’s back, Thalerian moves her hair out of the way with delicacy, gracefully adorning her neck with a _Jai’sural_ as the ancient tradition demands, a silver-white precious stone in the form of a tear shimmering faintly once the necklace is tied up on her neck. As the Duchess draws the sign of the Goddess upon them both, the couple faces each other, joining hands.

“ _With this favor, you are to be my lifemate,”_ The two of them chant in unison, not drawing their eyes away from the other, _“From this night until the Mother Moon calls upon one of us to join in Her loving embrace._ ”

The precious stone in Illysanna’s neck stops shimmering as their chant finishes, another loud round of applause following from the crowd as the Ravencrests courtly regard the nobles, then stepping aside to join the rest of the Houses. The gardens fill up with chattering not much after, yet Illidan’s attention is caught by another bunch of Rooksguards and Moonguards alike approaching from the Estate’s main hall—a very odd sight to be seen. Crimson and purple cloaks wave in the air as Warriors and Sorcerers dutifully stride together to stand in attention next to all the exits, effectively flanking the crowd of nobles gathering in the center.

Illidan’s hairs stand on end—Hargo seems to have been pretty much right with his suspicions. But where could he or the Stareyes be, for the matter?        

“Uh, oh…”Apparently so, another thing appears to catch Syrana’s eye, accidentally bumping into Illidan as she takes a step back. “Hey, Lid, dear, why don’t we just go? This is getting boring already and—“

Already getting shivers all over with being in a very precarious position, Illidan startles when Syrana clutches his wrist, pulling him away. “What? What have you seen?” He tries peeking past the multitude, sensing danger all around them.

But their friends only achieve to make Illidan grow more suspicious as Lothrius suddenly grabs him by the shoulder, both pulling him away in an insistent manner. “Yeah, surely Lady Astravar wouldn’t mind us leaving. Come on!” Lothrius goads him on, Syrana already trying to make way for them to leave.

However, they don’t get too far before the gardens shroud in complete silence once again, their host returning to her previous spot, everyone waiting for another speech. “Now, I would like to appoint and introduce the main vassals of our Great House.” Duchess Lunastre announces to the crowd, her warm voice all that can be heard as, through the corner of Illidan’s eye, she outstretches an arm to the gates. “Please welcome Lord Commander Desdel of House Stareye and his daughter, Lady Mylenne,”

Untangling himself from his friend’s grasp rather harshly, Illidan’s breath hitches for some reason, that sense of danger within him reaching its peak as he turns on his tracks, a very bad feeling making his heart race. Not minding Lothrius and Syrana calling for him, he takes some advantage of his height and searches for a better view.

Only to regret following his instincts, just as fast as he catches sight of Mylenne’s violet mane at the walkway—a ceremonial gown draped over her dress, arm linked to someone he’d completely forgotten about.

“… Joined by her suitor, Lieutenant-Commander Jarod of House Shadowsong,”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(Yeah, it's not just you - my head is also pounding with **the Kill Bill look** right now, LOL! But mind you, it's not the worst cliffhanger I'd left you with already, so shush!)  
>  (No, really, please don't kill me DDDD:)_
> 
> First of all, my sincere apologies for the _damn lot_ amount of characters in this chapter. But ugh, you know, it's a big event, and everyone has an important role on this, so I think it's kind of important to at least mention their names. I'm more than willing to answer any questions you may have, though!   
>  Truth is, I intended to leave you with a **worse** cliffhanger than this one, but the update was kinda getting out of my hands, so I thought it could be better to finish it here for now. 
> 
> Good news is, I'm very happy - and relieved, AHEM - to say we're _literally_ halfway through Starsurge! Yeah, yeah, shit didn't hit the fan JUST YET, but you're smart enough, and I believe you're pretty much aware that's exactly what's going to happen in the next part :D 
> 
> In the meantime, you can find me still working on my crappy art - [but drawing the boyzzzzz!](https://www.patreon.com/posts/rage-after-storm-18425721) \- to survive another day, or just begging people to commission me or either buy me a [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/hoxadrine) before going bankrupt. Overall, all in a day's work, but just know I'll always have time for you and your encouragement and support is what **really** keeps me going ♥


	28. Death Do Us Part (Lunastre Estate Pt. III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could she, really? For how long has she planned this? After everything he’s done for her and the _sick bastard_ of her uncle, she didn’t only dare lie to him, of all people—because for the Stareye’s secrecies, Illidan’s grown sadly accustomed to already. And he could forgive another of her lies, but going through something as big as an engagement and keep it hidden; that’s something bigger, something worse.
> 
> It’s _betrayal_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for violence, blood, and character death.**

** Darnassian: **

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

**Quel / Quel’dorei:**  Children of noble birth, also slang for Highborne.

**Sar’thera:**  A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating. Slang:  **Sart(e).**

**Arane:** A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for “nightmare/s”.

* * *

** Stormrage **

“Please welcome Lord Commander Desdel of House Stareye and his daughter, Lady Mylenne, joined by her suitor, Lieutenant-Commander Jarod of House Shadowsong…”

A muscle under Illidan’s right eye twitches involuntarily, mouth curling into the nastiest of sneers, time freezing for a split second as he tries taking on the scene unfolding before him. His nostrils flare as Lord Desdel saunters past where Illidan stands, yet his sights are utterly fixed on the couple behind; their linked arms, ceremonial gowns over them both, a sight nearly made to mock at him. Blood begins to boil like hot molten lava coursing through him, a pure, all-consuming _rage_ overtaking his senses.

When Mylenne spots him among the crowd on her way through, at least she pretends to look mortified, shying away in a mere instant and subtly clutching her friend—her _suitor!?—_ harder, having Jarod hushing something apparently comforting close to her ear.

Oh, the _bastard._ And to even think he’d started to have an ounce of respect for that boy…

Mylenne’s last words cling to his mind and as of then, Illidan couldn’t agree more with her assumptions. She can’t possibly expect him to forgive her for this; anyone with a tiny piece of grey matter between their eyes knows there’s no way that could happen. Yet regardless, _how could she?_

All their years together, their close friendship, every single precious moment they shared, has that ever meant something to her? Or was it all—as it blatantly seems so—one of the biggest lies he’s ever fallen for?

Just as how Lady Ravencrest did moments ago, she kneels before her Duchess, a more than pleased Lord Desdel watching from the sidelines with a wicked grin plastered all over his face. “Lady Stareye, with your union to the next-in-line Commander of the Black Rook Order, do you pledge to represent and commit to the best interests of your Great House among Suramar’s Court and the city’s denizens, above all else?”

Her suitor…? A union with a future Commander…? Every single second of that scene as it unfolds feels like a slap in Illidan’s face, his jaw beginning to hurt with the hard clenching of his teeth against each other. Yes, he’s finally seeing everything clearer then, and the reality of it all bolsters his sheer anger even further, not yet willing to fully admit how he’s apparently turned into _the biggest idiot_ Suramar ever had. A sense of an unadulterated _hatred_ flows through his veins, hands clenching into fists, nearly craving to have something in his hands to _snap_ as the real motives of that event are disclosed for everyone to see—and the truth finally is revealed to him.

“M-may Elune be my witness…”

Something shatters inside him, but when he internally braces for the pain to come over, it doesn’t precisely hurt; a greater sense of loathing pulsing within and shielding him from any harm. _I can’t believe her guts! She even has the_ audacity _of trying to look mortified!_ The twisted voice within him makes their return, and in a quite appropriate timing.

He notices Syrana making her way through to him, yet Illidan doesn’t bother to even spare a glance her way as she brushes his forearm in a concerning manner. “You knew about this.” He mutters, eyes glued on Shadowsong—or would he rather say, the next _Stareye_ —placing the _Jai’sural_ over Mylenne’s neck with all the heaviness in the world, the two of them still pretending to look unhappy with the situation. “You _knew,_ and lied to my face…”

“I, I—Lid, I re-really thought it wasn’t going to be like this, I swear I did—!” But Illidan just snaps his arm away from her grasp, turning on his heels and once again, making his way through the crowd and to the nearest exit, uncaring of whoever may follow him.

They’re just _pathetic_ , the lot of them, calling themselves his friends and then throwing their shit to his very face, and then there’s Mylenne, the worst of them all.

How could she, really? For how long has she planned this? After everything he’s done for her and the _sick bastard_ of her uncle, she didn’t only dare lie to him, of all people—because for the Stareye’s secrecies, Illidan’s grown sadly accustomed to already. And he could forgive another of her lies, but going through something as big as an engagement and keep it hidden; that’s something bigger, something worse.

It’s _betrayal_.

Hastening his steps—just in case those ones so shamelessly calling themselves his ‘friends’ may follow him—it’s nice to notice quite a lesser presence of guards around the insides of the Estate, taking it as a good omen to make himself a way out the hell he’s fallen into. That is, until the unmistakable feeling of a piercing stare falls over him, body stiffening near the small stairs of the ballroom as a voice assaults his mind for the third time on that evening.

_Quickly, come upstairs…_

Illidan’s eyes scan his considerably empty surroundings, stopping short at the sight of a lone figure on the first floor, a cobalt strand of hair flashing under a dark cowl from what could pass as robes of one of the kitchen’s servants—and yet, Illidan can only take as a _target_. For the matter, the man doesn’t seem taken aback by his death glare, tilting his head just slightly.

_Don’t drop your act just yet, two Rooksguards are glancing your way at this very moment. Now try keeping it casual and come over, please._  

It’s not like he’s about to do otherwise, but after supposing his thoughts can’t be heard somehow, Illidan pivots on his heels, heading for a shadowy corner under the stairs to the first floor and throwing another Invisibility spell on himself in a moment’s notice. Once the coast looks clear he heads for the man’s location, mindful of not step too close to any source of light, sneaking through a door he’s previously seen his companion walk into.

Inside what seems like a small study room, Hargo’then awaits next to the window, shifting a little after naturally noticing Illidan’s presence and taking down his hood in an apparent show of good faith. However, Illidan doesn’t care in the slightest about any friendly demeanor, dropping his spell at the same time his free hand begins glowing in a menacing purplish-blue, catching his acquaintance off-guard as arcane magic pulses and throws him to the nearest wall.

Hargo’s head takes a hard hit but doesn’t resist as much as Illidan would have thought at first, trapped into a corner as he is. “You knew Mylenne’s father was setting her up with Shadowsong, isn’t it?” Illidan shuts the door close, ensnaring his companion with the sheer force of his eyes only, “That’s why you interrupted Silgryn, back at the bar…” He recalls, golden gaze flaring with magic and dark intentions. “Was that worth it? All of you leaving me out of such a thing?”

His hood falls completely as the man attempts to catch his breath, only to make him grunt as an arcane whiplash strikes him on his gut, feet dangling as he’s lifted in the air. “It wasn’t our place to tell—” Hargo croaks, golden eyes faintly brimming with tears.

Utterly sick of everybody’s games, Illidan brings the man down merely to hold him by the front of his robes, “Then tell me, and think about your next words _very carefully_ ,” Hargo’s hairs stand on end at the sound of his growl, yet he’s still able to hold his heated gaze, “Why should I even help the lot of you? What’s stopping me from _fucking_ leaving right now?”

Hargo blinks twice, holding onto his wrist in an unconscious manner. “You think she went on with it willingly? You can’t possibly believe—“

Groaning loud, Illidan pushes him away before losing his mind—unable to grasp how he _still_ can speak in her defense after all that’s been said and done. “For all that sick mind trick of yours, you just can’t open your eyes,” He throws an arm in direction of the door and the massive gardens below, quite close to trembling with how irate he is. “You idiot, _she_ was the one who tipped you off! She betrayed Silgryn, and you… and _ME!_ ”

Even in his soft panting, Hargo goes frozen still, the features in his face relaxing and gaze dropping elsewhere, a soft ‘Oh’ leaving his mouth. As the man falls on the carpet floor and stays silent for a full minute—probably contemplating their current situation—a sudden pang of sympathy strikes Illidan at the sight of him.

And honestly, how wouldn’t he? Even with the differences they share, in truth, Hargo didn’t do anything wrong; he’s but another pawn who had the tragic chance of getting himself involved in a twisted scheme of tricks, manipulations and even murders from the Highborne nobility on their never-ending road to power.

_Don’t get caught on that pathetic sense of compassion just now, Stormrage. He made a_ choice _, and so did you._

With the reminder and just like that, the sudden feeling dissipates and Illidan straightens, turning his back on Hargo while he stands and saunters to the window beside them. “At this point, she can _rot_ for all I care…“ Illidan growls, sheer hatred adorning his voice, but he speaks more to himself than to his companion. For the voice within him may be his ruin in the long run, yet at least—and _depressingly_ so—is also the only one that doesn’t lie to his face.

Besides, doubting or questioning himself never has been Illidan’s regular way to face trouble; if anything, it’s the opposite—he goes all in or all out, grey spots aren’t suitable nor acceptable. He can’t give himself the luxury of hesitating or turning back on his choices just now.

However, almost as if he’s read Illidan’s mind, a concerned hum leaves Hargo’s lips, cobalt brows knitting hard and leaning further on the window glass. “You said you were leaving? Because I’m afraid that has just gotten a little more complicated for you…” He murmurs, gaze raptured on something outside.

Out of mere curiosity—and _absolutely done_ with bad omens from every single _dorei_ close to him for a decade, at least—Illidan follows Hargo’s eyes across the small window, blinking thrice afterwards, unable to believe what he’s seeing.

At the entrance of the Estate, surrounded from all sides by Rooksguards, with hands behind his back in a sign of submission stands no one else than… Lord Silgryn Stareye.

* * *

If it’s the Mother Moon testing his will or just his mere _fucking_ luck, Illidan can’t possibly tell at that point, frustratingly biting his lower lip hard enough to almost draw blood. “He must have found his invitation,” It’s the only conclusion he can come up with, nostrils flaring as he and his companion watch Silgryn saunter inside—cocky as ever, even with a troop of Warriors breathing over his neck. A faint purplish glow on his periphery draws his attention away, if momentarily. “What are you doing?”

Hargo doesn’t glance his way or blinks, looking like also holding his breath. “I’m trying to reach him, but he’s too far from me,”

Illidan’s brow quirks up at the comment, curious and skeptical altogether. “How’s that mind trick really works, anyway?” He can’t help to wonder, gaze darting to Hargo and the elder Stareye at the entrance, his smugness noticeable even from afar.

“Not how you really believe so, that’s for sure. I can’t hear anyone’s thoughts,” Hargo gives him a grave glare before turning away from the window. “I can only tap into the first barrier of someone else’s mind, allowing me to be heard, but nothing further. And only can do with one at the time, needless to say from a certain distance,”

“Where did you learn that? It is certainly useful, all things considering,” A natural thirst for knowledge prompts Illidan to keep asking, his eyes following his companion as he appears to recheck his stockings.

Hargo snorts softly, “It is, yes, as it’s equally dangerous if you get carried away, invasive as it is. Listening to someone’s thoughts, in fact, requires a deeper barrier to be breached, and believe me when I say how painful and even _fatal_ that can be if done wrong.” The man takes special care in remarking, flicking a long index finger in the air. “That’s Arcanist Valtrois’ field, by the way.”

Indeed, Illidan recalls that past mention from him. However, it doesn’t precisely explain Hargo’s expertise—or maybe his records are based on lies, for there are no connections between him and the aforementioned Arcanist at all. “I know Conjurer Stareye could do that. Even in her passing, she could _communicate_ with her daughter, somehow.” Illidan says nonchalantly, deep down hoping to find that puzzle piece that seems to be missing and could explain the mystery behind Hargo’s very particular ability.

A sudden thought crosses Illidan’s mind as of then. Could that skill of his be the reason behind Silgryn’s evident favoritism with Hargo? So far, he hasn’t found a more solid answer than that and—insufferable feelings towards the two men aside—Illidan never fully believed the elder Stareye’s past statements of liking the Officer merely for having proper decorum, so to say. After all, if there’s a need to compare, Illidan too knows his way among the aristocracy and quite too well.

For the matter, his companion doesn’t seem willing to give him the answers he wants. “But you know you don’t need magic for that, Illidan,” Hargo throws a skeptical look his way, not particularly looking like believing his indirect, “That requires just a deep, meaningful bond between the two parties. Like mother and child, lifemates… _twin siblings_ , perhaps?”

Left without a proper retort, Illidan just grumbles in admission, out of ideas to keep nosing on the man. Hargo nods sharply as if putting an end to that topic—at least for the further moment—and tucks a poisoned dagger under his belt, heading to the door. “Now, I don’t know what Silgryn’s plans are, but on my end I must still find a way to get Lord Desdel alone, or at least away from Mylenne, if briefly,” Covering his features with his dark hood, only his golden eyes are left on sight, prompting Illidan to follow on his way out the room, “Has she told you anything else?”

“What?” Illidan’s steps falter, not getting Hargo’s apparent stubbornness in the matter, casting an incredulous look his way, “After all they’ve done, you’re still willing to risk your life for any of them?”

His companion doesn’t seem to be taken aback by his words, “Of course I am,” He says as if it’s obvious, walking away and not waiting for him, “I’m positive you’d do the same for the ones you love. Isn’t that why you’re here in the first place?”

Figuring out Hargo would leave him behind, he reluctantly follows, silently closing the door behind him. “I _was_. I’m very much done with that now…” Illidan growls, lowering his voice after reaching the hallway, “She made her choice and sided with her father, remember?” He takes care of remarking, a snarl in his face.

Hargo merely quirks up a cobalt eyebrow, his eyes scanning the main hall below, “And you really believe she had one in the first place?”

“She _chose_ to hide her _engagement_ from me. So yes, I rather think so,” Illidan insists through clenched teeth, anger beginning to pump under his skin once again.

The two of them fall silent after catching the eye of a small woman—apparently a waitress, judging by her plain robes—making her way down the stairs, yet goes on her way as if nothing happened after Hargo subtly tilts his head to the right. _One of Arluin’s sparrows, seems like._ The voice of his conscience leaves Illidan to wonder; how many of them could be around, really? Not counting that waitress and Mylenne’s maids, that is.

“Speaking of choosing, you seem to be missing something crucial,” Hargo continues, his gaze glued on the girl sauntering past two Rooksguards guarding the same lobby leading to the back of the Lunastre’s gardens. “Among the two of us, or three if you add up Jarod, she chose _you_.”

The same doors from which Illidan previously walked in on his way back from the gardens then open, Lords and Ladies from many Houses coming and going, but the fair majority heading the same way Hargo’s accomplice went on moments ago.

For the matter, Illidan’s attention is prompted to his companion, a serious glint on the man’s eyes, almost as if _daring_ him to come up with a proper retort. “Is that so? Because from what I’ve seen, she’s going to marry another man,” A fake smirk crosses Illidan’s face, his low voice clearly tinted with sheer disgust.

He’s partially aware he’s starting to act a tad bit childish, yet it’s not like he can help it when Hargo’s nostrils flare as he takes an intake breath, looking fairly close to reaching the end of his patience. “A man whose life is about to be _ruined_ , if it hasn’t already…”

Almost as if to prove his point, Hargo then subtly points out at a familiar Lady hurriedly striding across the Main Hall, not really succeeding in hiding the torrent of tears streaming down her face. Illidan’s lips purse at the sight—he’s completely forgotten about Shalasyr Starweave, then recalling the fact she was actually being courted by Jarod and, not only for the looks of it but also for Syrana’s passing comments, was quite interested in him as well.

“But have it your way,” Hargo continues, disappointment in his voice, “You won’t get it until you realize not everything’s about you, Illidan.”

His remark, intentional or not, turns Illidan livid as fast as the blink of an eye. “What did you just say?”

But his companion pays no mind to the enraged glare he sends his way, turning his back on him, about to go on his business. “That Silgryn was sadly right about you, and you won’t ever be ready for anything until you change your selfish ways and look at the bigger picture.” Even when looking clearly frustrated, Hargo’s voice is as plain and calm as so very usual, succeeding in making Illidan more irate, “Even Mylenne’s choices are pretty obvious to my eyes. She’s _acting_ on what she thinks it’s best for all of us. Silgryn does too, and Jarod, and _me_ …”

A menacing growl reverberates inside Illidan’s mind, like a beast just about to snap and overtake his rational senses. “And you really believe risking your life for a cause that’s not yours is… what? _Honorable_? An ‘act of love’, as you so like to put it?”

Yet Illidan’s rant falls on deaf ears as a newcomer catches the attention of nearly the whole Estate, the few passing guests on the Main Hall stopping short as one of the big doors cracks open. The room, immense as it is, then shrouds in silence at the presence of Silgryn Stareye sauntering in, all curious eyes set on him and the Rooksguards flanking him, wary of his very shadow.

There’s a sound of robes fluttering, but when Illidan glances sideways, Hargo’s already nowhere in sight, adding up to his frustration. Not many people are left hanging out at the gardens as of then, the majority of Lunastre’s court and the Duchess herself already elsewhere, leaving Illidan to wonder what’s really up on Silgryn’s mind.

_And how you possibly believe he’s on his right mind, at all? It’s already insane of him to have come all along, that man clearly has a death wish!_

To most of the small audience’s surprise, Lord Starweave is the one breaking the tense silence. “Silgryn…? Is that really you?” Nyellus tilts his head in near disbelief, a hopeful smile lighting up his face.

The portion of Silgryn’s face Illidan can see grins back, a lighthearted chuckle filling up the Main Hall. However, Syrana doesn’t seem to be looking up to join what could pass as a merry reunion between two old friends; dragging her sobbing sister along and hushing something clearly upsetting to her father’s ear, Nyellus features changing drastically.

“It’s really joyful to see your ugly face again after so long, Nye,” Silgryn says dearly, a gleam on his silver eyes proving how much he means that. Sadly, it doesn’t last much after a quick glance past his shoulders, “I only wish it could have been under more… _pleasant_ circumstances,” He glares at one of the warriors nearby, nearly daring him to come closer, “At least not surrounded by a bunch of rookies treating me as if a criminal. And with a bottle of Nightwine in hand, of course,”

Even with the elder Stareye seemingly attempting to lift the moods, tension falls over the room once again as Syrana steps in the way of him and her father, outstretching an arm towards Nyellus in a protective manner. “You made a big mistake with coming here, Silgryn…” Her grim tone is a clear warning for the man not to come any closer, surely more than aware what his intentions truly are.

A muffled cry coming from one of the rooms on the first floor makes one of Illidan’s ears twitch, a gut feeling telling him it must be Hargo’s doing, prompting him to search for another vantage point on the opposite way of the floor, preferably close to another exit.

He doesn’t get much farther, though, as the sound of steps reverberates across the Main Hall, a dark, mocking chuckle announcing quite an undesirable arrival. His breath catches, sticking to the closest shadowed corner within a moment.

“Now, now, Lady Starweave, there is no need to be hasty,” There’s not much Illidan can glance at from his vantage point as of then, yet Lord Desdel Stareye’s sheer presence is all that’s needed for his hairs to stand on end—his dark cloak casting a larger shadow behind his steps, making him more imposing as well as _menacing._ “He was invited, after all…”

Illidan wasn’t then born to acknowledge the comments regarding the Nightsaber, although it’s fairly easy to hold them true as for witnessing his entrance as of then—near larger than life, capturing everyone’s attention within a second, capable of silencing an entire room by his mere will. A deadly prowler in and out, able to make anyone cower before him, terrified.

And that’s exactly how Mylenne and Jarod Shadowsong seem to be, a shocked look in both their faces as they walk inside behind Lord Stareye, procuring not to stand as close to him as absolutely necessary.

However, Silgryn’s the only one not seeming to be as frightened as the rest of the witnesses. “Yet you started the party without me. What was even the point?” He scoffs, leaning on his other hip, throwing his arms in an offended manner.

Syrana—ever the careful—doesn’t dare to cross the noble Lord, subtly prompting her family elsewhere and far from Illidan’s sights. Lord Desdel’s wicked grin, for the matter, never falters, almost as if savoring the distance everyone places between him. “Time is at the essence, Silgryn. It would have been rude to keep the guests waiting further,” He says nonchalantly, fixing his former brother-in-law with a glare.

A flash of crimson catches Illidan’s eye, forcing him to move further into the shadows as a pair of soldiers stealthily reach the first floor, armed and apparently ready for anything. Figuring out incapacitating them would probably give him away, Illidan just stays so very still until they walk past him, seizing the moment afterwards and taking another set of stairs down as silently as he can.

“See, that’s why _you_ don’t get invited anywhere,” True to his usual demeanor, Silgryn keeps his mocking—their tense conversation all that’s heard as Illidan crouches on a safe corner, “You have to be more flexible! Plan on the moment, let things flow their course…”

Without catching anyone’s attention, he succeeds in reaching the closest spot to Mylenne and Jarod. But it’s just as he’s about to make a dangerous move and try making the couple notice him, when Mylenne lets go of his friend—his _suitor_ , as Illidan can’t ever stop recalling by then—and walks forward to grab her father by the arm.

Not like Lord Desdel takes mind of his daughter, for the matter, not bothering to acknowledge her and crossing his arms in a cocky manner. “Just as how you came with a makeshift plan and ended up throwing my soldiers down the bridge, back at Black Rook?” Lord Stareye wonders, his tone more than challenging.

Silgryn looks taken aback for a brief moment, confusion crossing his face, yet he’s quick in concealing it. “Ah, I get it now…” A knowing smile clings to his lips, imitating Lord Desdel’s stance and crossing his arms as well. “Look, if you were looking forward to making a show and accuse me in front of your guests, I’m afraid that’s kind of a rude manner,” He points out with a tilt of his head, “Maybe you should leave future parties up to me? I’m clearly a better host than you. No offense…” He’s quick to add that last part.

“None taken,” Lord Stareye shrugs it off, and then finally turns to a nervous Mylenne at his side, “Yet these guests and your delay were not of my doing. In fact, it was all my _daughter’s_ …”

Her father’s arm slithers across Mylenne’s shoulders—thankfully out of those offensive ceremonial robes by then—pulling her close. However, what really captures Illidan’s eye is the faint glint of Lord Desdel’s broadsword as his long cloak reveals it with the movement, sensing danger all along. _No weapons were allowed tonight but, somehow, Lord Stareye and his troops are all armed. I’d bet he was expecting Silgryn all along…_

“ _An’da_ , this is not—“ Mylenne tries to protest, only to be squeezed briefly in return.

“Now, my dear, you know I can’t always act _and_ speak on your behalf,” Lord Desdel excuses himself, not hiding the hint of mockery in his voice, “And I told you not inviting your uncle to your engagement would upset him. He is a Stareye, whether we like it or not…”

“And yet, I wasn’t either invited to _discuss_ this engagement…” Silgryn’s eyes gleam heatedly, but for some reason he manages to contain himself, drawing a long sigh afterwards. “No matter, that’s already in the past. And I’m sure you know such formal meetings bore me to death anyway,”

Mylenne squirms beside her father, and he lets her go without apparent thinking, clearly more aware of Silgryn than anyone else in the room. “Yet here you are. Makes me wonder why, given your reluctance…”

“For starters, I found your _intercepted_ invitation. And yeah, that was pretty rude of you, Mylie,” The elder Stareye shifts in his stance, unconsciously startling the warriors surrounding him, a couple of them even going for their swords yet stopping midway. “But in truth, it was pretty impolite to not have expected the _true Lord_ of House Stareye to show up on such a tremendous event for our Household, isn’t it?” His arms spread wide, a wicked grin plastered all over his face, pulling up a show pretty much like his usual demeanor, “Now, who should I talk to for annulling this nonsense right away?”

Through the corner of his eye, Illidan notices movement at the first floor once again, yet any sound that may come from either Hargo or a possible target of his is muffled by Lord Desdel’s dark chuckle, reverberating across the hall. “Everything has to be so straightforward with you, isn’t it, Silgryn?” Despite his snickering, the noble Lord doesn’t sound amused in the slightest, taking a challenging step forward. “Have you forgotten you’re not in any position to negotiate?”

Close to Illidan’s hiding spot, Jarod surges forward and in attempts to grab Mylenne as another half dozen warriors make their appearance at Lord Stareye’s casual signal. All doors leading to the Hall abruptly shut close with a loud thump—the Starweaves apparently elsewhere, much to Illidan’s relief—clearly trapping the remaining presents. Adrenaline courses through Illidan’s veins, heart pumping just as hard it’s all he can hear for a moment.

Inwardly, he curses his stupidity, but most of all, he’s briefly overcome with a sheer regret of agreeing to attend that blasted event. He should have left the room behind Mylenne, back at the bar when the group first discussed their course of action. He shouldn’t have agreed so willingly on such insanity, should have listened to his friends and their insistence otherwise instead. He shouldn’t have taken Mylenne and her lies to heart as he did for so long.

But his biggest mistake of them all was following his curiosity, more than a decade ago, and get to know her in the first place…

Before anyone can come up with a protest, two warriors standing at Silgryn’s side draw their broadswords, crossing them before him, the noise of the blades clashing together more than ominous for Illidan’s liking. “For your actions at Black Rook Hold, conspiring against your Household and consequently, your Great House, you have been deemed a traitor, a menace to the Court. An arrest warrant has already been placed on you.” Lord Desdel declares, hands clasped on his back, and there’s no need for Illidan to take a look at his face to notice how much he seems to be savoring the moment.

Apparently desperate, Mylenne shoves away a concerned Jarod, clinging to her father’s robes with both hands. “ _No!_ Father, you _promised_ —!”

“For the _sake_ of my daughter, you can kneel before me and submit peacefully, and you may be spared,” Lord Desdel continues over Mylenne’s pleas, his evident pleasure with the situation somewhat faltering, brushing her off as politely as it can be. “Exile is always an option and one that, I dare say, suits you better than your head adorning my room. Besides, I’m sure our relatives at Then’Ralore will be glad to take you in…”

Silgryn, for the matter, doesn’t look taken aback in the slightest, his face showing nothing at all, looking as if he’d expected that outcome to happen—knowing him, probably even _hoping_ for it. “Aaw, that’s actually very flattering of you,” For a moment, Illidan finds it admiring he doesn’t even seem intimidated by the number of soldiers pinning him, his insufferable grin still plastered all over his face. “However, and beforehand, know I am _truly sorry_ , but I must refuse your offer,”

The unmistakable feeling of a pair of eyes set on him brings Illidan’s attention to the first floor once again; a familiar figure partially shrouded in shadows, his glowing gaze what most stands out as he prepares to cast a spell. After a slight nod of mutual agreement, Illidan’s hands begin glowing with magic as well, yet he’s in a more difficult position to reach their target without hurting Jarod or Mylenne in the process—something he wouldn’t mind as much given the _special_ situation, although he’s positive it’d bring more trouble than he’s up to handle already.

“My only offer was to make this easier for both of us. You don’t really have a say in the matter,” Lord Desdel scoffs, apparently oblivious of what’s about to come over him. “You’re surrounded and there’s nowhere you can go. So, what about just—“

Surprisingly so, Mylenne’s the one hyper-aware of the menace looming over. “ _Watch out!_ ” She cries, throwing herself at her father and shoving them away a mere moment before an arcane blast reaches their previous spot, cracking the tile floor with its force.

The hall room falls void of any noise for a time-stopping second, leaving the attendants to watch in shock as Lord Desdel and his daughter fall onto the floor unceremoniously, not a breath passing by.

… And then, there’s _chaos._

Silgryn, smart as he is, ends up being the first in seizing the moment, an artifact falling down one of his many pockets and encasing his surroundings in thick black smoke. Illidan finds it pointless to stay hidden for much longer, making a sprint for the stairs and a better vantage position, accidentally clashing onto a random soldier in the process. The Rooksguard chokes, then gasps after taking a peeking glance at him, most likely mistaking Illidan for the attacker.

“Intrud— _agh!_ ” He doesn’t get to finish his cry for help as Illidan’s survival instincts kick in and his elbow connects with his nose, throwing him off the stairs, disappearing into the sea of smoke below.

The elder Stareye reappears at the first floor in the same exact moment a horde of unknown people—Arluin’s, without a doubt—come out of nowhere, launching themselves onto the thick smoke as apparently planned beforehand. Among all the chaos, Lord Desdel’s roar resounds louder than the rest of the cries, “SEIZE HIM! NOW!”

Soon enough, it all comes down to a brawl so to see who’s the last one standing, prompting Illidan to blindly attack every flash of crimson and black that may come near him. Quite effortlessly, he sends soldiers flying down with the strength of his blasts, yet keeps somewhat careful of Silgryn standing his ground not so far away, dodging the flurry of daggers the man insists on throwing to and fro in his recklessness.

Luckily so, Illidan’s not out of targets in his reach, tackling a particularly tall warrior after he swings his sword at him, then disarming the next one who attempts to assist his fellow with a sharp flick of his wrist—deliberately taking some advantage and using the stunned man as a shield, a dagger piercing the warrior’s shoulder when a split second before was Illidan’s face.

“Watch it!” Illidan barks in protest, kicking his previous opponent’s weapon before giving him the chance to recover, hoping for Silgryn to recognize him among the swarm of people.

For what it feels like an eternity later, a glance and sharp frown sent Illidan’s way makes him know he does so, brushing some dark-violet strands off his sweaty forehead before fully taking in the situation around him, once he has a moment of respite. Illidan can’t help with doing the same, breath slightly hitching at the sight of many wounded and fallen men all over the place, his anger somewhat bolstering as well.

The thick fog still leaves them unable to see what’s happening below, although the constant grunts and cries and clash of blades are enough for anyone to figure it out. A soft sigh prompts Illidan’s attention, staring at a then pale Silgryn; a dread realization dawning on his silver eyes, nearly shocked to the core.

Illidan can almost read his mind and, if angrily, agrees with Silgryn’s sentiment. It clearly wasn’t supposed to be like this, the goal never was to slain but to maim or incapacitate. Only one man was supposed to die that evening, not his troops, not Arluin’s people—some of them even barely adult _dorei_ , judging by their small figures and plain faces then lying on the cold tile, lifeless eyes printed with their last moments before their breath was taken away.

Rebel, determined, some of them almost proud… yet all sacrificing their lives for a cause that was never theirs.

“The gates… head to the main gates…” It’s all Silgryn breathes, demoralized and crushed as he seems to be, gripping his blades harder in an apparent attempt to stop his hands from shaking. “Get your friends and run.”

Both men share a hard look, but Illidan obliges nonetheless, making another sprint for the stairs—determined to not look back, or else he’d lose his resolve. Two warriors get on his way, but they’re easily dealt with as he tackles the closest one; the second groaning and falling on his knees as a dagger from above pierces his forearm.

Right after reaching the main gates, however, Illidan’s reflexes aren’t too fast, scarcely dodging a broadsword coming from nowhere and swinging at him, his cheek earning a cut nonetheless. A soft groan escapes him as it begins to sting, scrambling for some purchase and facing his attacker, managing to parry another swirl of his blade barely with an armored bracelet. But when he’s just about to kick his attacker and procure himself some distance to even the score, the warrior stays his hand and raises the other in the universal sign of asking for a pause—taking a hesitant step into the light, the more than baffled face of Jarod Shadowsong showing before him.

Jarod’s head tilts to the side, jaw slightly dropping and a glint of recognition flashing across his silver eyes. However, the man doesn’t get the chance to speak as, among the clash of blades and battle cries, a familiar voice cuts them all off.

Near the middle of the Main Hall, Lord Desdel trips and falls on one knee, although is far from defeated. “… _You?”_ His growl reverberates across the room, sharp canines showing, “Of all scoundrels in this Empire, he had to send my daughter’s petty _man whore,_ ” Lord Desdel spits at Hargo’s feet, clutching his massive sword harder and getting on his feet with practiced ease, almost in an elegant way. “No matter, though. I’ll enjoy bringing your traitorous head to Duchess Astravar…”

Even when staring at his back, Hargo doesn’t seem as affected by the thick smoke swirling around them, pointing the tip of his sharp blade at Lord Desdel’s face. “Drop your blade and surrender, Milord, and no one else will come to harm,” He warns, determined as ever.

But the boy gets a mocking snort in reply. “Well, now _I_ am surprised. You really couldn’t have thought you would be warming my daughter’s bed for much longer. Or is it… _oh_!” A sort of realization dawns on Lord Stareye’s face, adding a curious tilt of his head. “You have grown fond of your mistress? She certainly has some ways with the likes of you after all…”

The room gets a tad bit clearer and brighter as Illidan kicks the gates open, yet somehow not many people seem to care as much as the scene unfolding in the Hall. And admittedly so, however, as Lord Desdel’s near insane laugh captures most of the attention.

“You think you _love_ her? You think you know anything about love, lowborn?” The noble Lord mocks at Hargo, fixing him with a heated glare and seeming to study his opponent as he paces around, “Love is nothing but a weapon, meant to conceal our most dark desires.” The tip of his massive blade grazes against the tile floor ominously, nearly craving for a battle. “It feeds at you from the inside out, leaving only _rage_ and _despair_ once it’s got enough from you…”

A flash of dark-violet reveals the presence of Silgryn Stareye, his robes fluttering gracefully, “Very curious to hear that from such a devotee to our Goddess…” He snarls back, probably attempting to catch Lord Desdel’s attention as he saunters across the Hall, cocky as ever.   

Lord Stareye stops his pacing, a pleased smirk showing on his face. “Is it? Your adoring sister taught me that,” Nobody but Illidan seems to acknowledge Mylenne standing her ground not so far away, knocking out one of Silgryn’s envoys with a swift elbow to their nose. “And I must give it to her: From all of us, she was the _best_ at it…”

The taunt appears to do its charm. “You won’t speak ill of Aedriel anymore!” Silgryn roars, clutching his daggers and launching himself at the noble Lord in a moment’s notice.

Overcome with a greater sense of danger, Illidan seizes the chaotic moment and heads the opposite way, swallowing down the twisted voice within him, all but shouting _Coward, coward, COWARD!_. His ears ring with a rekindled clash of swords and metal against metal, but he doesn’t reach the first set of stairs before being abruptly stopped by Jarod Shadowsong, a silent plea crossing his silver eyes.

“I am only speaking the truth!” In an unconscious manner, both of them turn at Lord Desdel’s enraged yell, finding his daughter fighting at his back with her bare hands. However, Lord Stareye seems to have a more suitable idea—swiftly grabbing Mylenne by the arm and pressing the flat of his sword on her chest. “… Don’t I, my dear?”

Near the entire Hall falls frozen still at Lord Stareye’s action, Illidan’s heart missing a beat, not even the blowing wind from outside daring to make a single noise.

“Father, you can’t—“ Mylenne snarls, not appearing as afraid as she _should_ be, only to prompt her father’s sword to raise close to her face. “All I did was helping you! Let go of me!”

Quite a few of Silgryn’s envoys are left standing, yet all of them reluctantly comply and slowly drop their weapons at the Rooksguards signal. Everyone but the most important among them, clutching his blades for dear life, knuckles going pale. “You really overdo yourself every single time…” Silgryn can’t seem to help with pointing out, his voice somehow weak, “That is quite a way to honor your Duchess in her home,”

“And all this show you’ve made only to get to me, isn’t that the same?” Lord Stareye scoffs, not appearing moved in the slightest. “Now, if I may take your… _lackey’s_ words: Drop your blade and surrender, and no one will come to harm,”

Begrudgingly so—but also to add to everyone’s panic, Jarod and Illidan included—Silgryn throws his daggers at the noble Lord’s feet, quickly and as if trying not to give it a second thought. “Nice to know you can still listen to some reason, Silgryn. It seems my dear daughter was right with giving you a little faith.” Lord Desdel grins as if it’s the best night of his life, an overjoyed look in his dull silver eyes. “Now, for everyone’s sakes, _kneel_ and put an end to this pathetic crusade of yours,”

A gauntleted hand pulling at Illidan’s robes subtly calls for his attention. “I have an idea. You may not like it but it’s all I can think of right now…” Jarod says low, barely mouthing the words, handling him a blade. A silent command crosses Jarod’s eyes, glancing at the weapon he’d just given Illidan before returning to his face, the meaning more than evident.

“Oh, it’ll rather be my pleasure…” Illidan rumbles, a smirk hinted with malice plastered over his helmeted face as he very willingly grabs Jarod by his shoulder, turning him harshly and pressing the blade over his throat—yet not hard enough to not let him send a choked cry for help.

That seems to be enough to turn the Stareye’s attention on them, even Silgryn looking quite surprised to watch such outcome—just this once, not thought nor made by his own doing. Illidan doesn’t give either of them a chance to reconsider their actions, shielding himself with Jarod and walking backwards to the nearest exit.

“ _Arane_ … Jarod!” Without seeming to give it a second to ponder about, the last they both get to see is Silgryn instantly turning on his heels, chasing Illidan and his fake captive as they slip off the Estate.

Reaching a shadowed corner and with no witnesses about, Illidan finally lets Jarod go, if with some reluctance. As pleasing as it’d felt to have the boy writhing under his grasp, he’s aware it’s of no good to hold on that deep desire of choking him to death for the current moment—after all, he may have another chance to do so in the future, but as of then, there are worst threats to care about.

Catching his breath and rubbing his sore windpipe, Jarod glances his way. “You think he bought it?” He doesn’t wait for a reply either way, peeking through the corner as the sound of footsteps reaches their ears, what seems like a fair bunch of Rooksguards coming their way. “I really hope he knows what he’s doing, though. Now hide!”

Not really sure of who he’s talking about, Illidan doesn’t have the chance to ask, obliging and sticking his back to the wall instead. Turns out it’s Silgryn himself who shows first, running to Jarod at first sight of his recognizable silver mane; only to grunt in surprise when the boy grabs him by the front of his robes—with a strength Illidan hasn’t ever seen in him—and pushes Silgryn against the wall, next to Illidan.

“I’ll cover you two, but _you_ …” Jarod’s perky nose nearly rubs Silgryn’s as he leans close to his face, a threatening look crossing his eyes, “You’ve done enough for an _Embrace_. Now get out of here in this instant or I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

Silgryn shoves him off with an offended flick of his wrist; the two of them going into a fierce staring match for a full minute, cutting it off just once the noise of more guards seem to come closer to their location. Appearing not to have hard feelings for Illidan—but quite sure he’s aware it’s _not_ likewise either—Jarod gives him a curt nod before turning on his tracks and storming out their hiding corner, recalling the attention of, most likely so, his subordinates.

For the matter, Silgryn’s confident façade drops the second after he and Illidan are left alone, going pale and near traumatized once again. “Oh, Drie, I think I fucked it up real bad this time,” Silgryn sighs heavily, sparing himself a moment of respite, eyes drooping closed. “I couldn’t have known she’d do that, Illidan. I couldn’t…”

As Jarod effectively sends the Rooksguards inside, Silgryn gives Illidan a pleading gaze, leaving him more than concerned at his so unlikely attitude. _Don’t pity him!_ The voice of Illidan’s conscience protests, crawling their way into his mind, _This is the same man who always took you for granted. He_ deserves _this more than most!_

His cobalt brows knit into a frown, pondering the situation. Indeed, this is but the mere result of Silgryn’s arrogance, and Illidan wouldn’t question that, yet it’s not fair that everyone should pay for his mistakes.

A long moment goes by before Illidan makes up his mind, taking a deep breath, more than aware how likely it is to regret it. “My saber should be next to the Astravar’s cart. Take him and meet me when we previously agreed on,” Illidan’s jaw clenches, but forces himself to continue, “I’ll fetch who I _can_ , but nothing more… and then I’m done with you Stareyes.”

Silgryn’s lilac lips purse, but ends up nodding in admission, if near _miserably._ “So be it.”

Without further ado, Illidan pivots on his heels, keeping a tight grip on the blade he’s been given and turning on his own tracks, noticing how the Rooksguard hasn’t spared a moment and already resumed their onslaught against the intruders at the Estate. Hargo appears to be at the head of the assault, giving Lord Stareye and whoever may come near him a little piece of their own hell; swinging his daggers to and fro and just as fast it becomes a blur of silver and purplish-blue to the eye. If to give most of his unarmed fellows some time to scatter away or just out of spite, Illidan may never know nor mind at the current moment.

The place is just as messy as how he’d left it minutes ago, fallen warriors and rogues sprawled all over the Main Hall, and it’s a wonder how no other enforcers have yet arrived to take control of the chaotic scene unfolded under Duchess Lunastre’s roof. However, it’s not like it’d have improved Illidan’s situation, forced to elbow, kick and even stab his way inside.

After finding his target and scrambling his way to them, Illidan nearly staggers as he’s left to watch firsthand how Hargo’s resilience begins faltering and Lord Desdel brings a mortal blow of his sword downwards, slicing Hargo’s calf—the howl of pain that comes afterwards, almost feeling it as his own. A greater sense of urgency kicks in, a roar rumbling from the bottom of Illidan’s throat, magic surging off his body, knocking down everyone on his path as if mere flies.

The rest comes as a blur and Illidan has no idea how he manages to do it, yet he couldn’t care less as, in the next second, he finds himself behind a stunned Mylenne, grabbing her firmly from behind. “Don’t—Lid, _please_!” She begs desperately, trying to close the distance between them and Hargo with an outstretching hand. “I must help him! _PLEASE!_ ”

Hargo falls to his knees unceremoniously and Mylenne writhes frantically, nails digging into the back of his hand, prompting Illidan to summon all his resolve and not let her go. A pair of golden eyes meets the two of them and, for the briefest of moments, Illidan waits for his familiar voice to slide into his mind—a sudden rant, a thank you, his last words, _anything_ he’s willing to give.  

But all they get is a weak smile in return.

“No, no… _HARGO!_ ”

Mylenne’s strength is no match to Illidan as he pulls her close to his chest, time slowing its motion before his glowing eyes, heart pounding wildly. The last thing he sees past Mylenne’s disgruntled hair and wailing cries is the final swing of her father’s massive broadsword and Hargo’s eyes drooping close, blade piercing through flesh and bone.

His spell cracks the air and floor with its force and as they vanish into the nether. Next is the all too brief peace of nothingness and Mylenne’s howling scream, rippling through the void, inevitably splitting Illidan’s heart in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I AM SO SORRY!**.  
>  This took longer than expected due to the passing of my beloved cat, Kael'thas, who was like a son to me - _and here I still am with a character death, I'm the worst person ever_ \- and some art commissions I got along the way. 
> 
> And with this concludes the first half of this book! As much as it pains me to post this part, I'll admit I can't be any more relieved I got this far. Expect these guys to be breaking all kinds of havoc from now on :D   
> As usual, **thank you so much for those still sticking with these dorks, and for the new ones, welcome to Mylidan hell!** Starsurge is turning 2 years very soon and I can't be any happier to have you hopping into this mess of a 'verse. All my love goes to you ♥


End file.
